


Passing Ships

by letsbreereal



Series: Taserbones Soulmate AUs [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missed Opportunities, Not Canon Compliant, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Pre-Hydra in SHIELD Reveal (Marvel), References to Depression, Scarred!Brock Rumlow, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Timeline What Timeline, taserbones, triple agent!Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28074402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsbreereal/pseuds/letsbreereal
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, there are a great many things capable of keeping soulmates apart. Time, allegiance, circumstance, inner demons... the list goes on and on.Brock Rumlow learns at a young age that he can't count on fate to bring him happiness, and that's a good thing, too, because fifty-one years is a hell of a long time to wait.[Soulmate AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your body.]
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: Taserbones Soulmate AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056626
Comments: 198
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

Brock grows up in the Bronx, in a large, boisterous, traditional Italian-American family. They’re a close-knit group, razzing on each other and shouting across the kitchen table more nights than not, but they love each other, and they never give anyone a reason to doubt that.

Family means everything to the Rumlows, means more than anything else, except (…or including, depending on which Rumlow you ask…) God and religion. And soulmates? Well… soulmates are all of the above. Soulwords are gifts from God, after all, prophesized true love direct from the big man upstairs. So, naturally, to the Rumlows, soulmates are something meant to be cherished above all else.

Brock grows up on the stories of his _nonna_ and _nonno_ and their epic, fated love story that really could’ve been the plot of some crazy Hallmark movie, the way they tell it. He hears his older cousins talking with excitement about how they’ll meet their soulmates. Brock’s own parents are also soulmates, but his father is a fireman and dies when Brock is only ten years old, so he spends a lot of time with his cousins, growing up. He hears the stories a lot.

Vince spends years certain that his words (“ _Oh, wow… You know, I never figured out how to respond to that_.”) must mean he’ll have an absolutely incredible pick up line when the time comes, but in the end, it turns out he’s wasted in a bar his first year in college, blabbering about how his high school girlfriend had just left him. Leo’s lucky enough to have a name in his words, so he makes a point of asking most people he meets if they happen to know a Katherine they’d like to introduce him to. Claudia’s cursed with a mundane greeting for her words, so she swears to always have something unique to say whenever she’s meeting someone new. And Tony? Well, Tony spends a good few years trying to come up with alternate scenarios to explain the “ _Sorry, Man, this your locker?”_ scribbled across his torso, but no one’s surprised when he brings a guy he met at football practice home one Thanksgiving dinner. They all like Johnny; he’s a nice kid, and he makes sure the younger girls get included when the boys go to play ball in the backyard.

Brock’s eight years younger than his cousins. He’s the oldest of four, with three younger sisters, but the youngest boy in the Rumlow family. He’s also the only one in the family without any words.

“You’re soulmate is just younger than you, Brock,” his mother and aunts assure him, when Ronnie’s born and he sees that even his baby sister has words when he still doesn’t. (Frankie had also been born with her words, though Gabbie’s hadn’t come in until she was three years old, but Brock was younger, then.) “Vince was eight.” And he’s _nine_ , Brock is quick to point out, but his concerns are only brushed away.

“You’ve got to be patient, Boy,” he’s told when he’s eleven and still Blank. His _nonna_ ’s always telling them how kids aren’t patient enough these days.

“There’s still time,” his cousins tell him, but he’s thirteen, and he’s old enough to understand the look they exchange over his head.

He’s fifteen when they stop talking about it altogether, when his aunts and uncles and cousins all seem to get the same memo to keep their mouths shut about soulmates and soulwords and, hell, relationships generally, at least when Brock’s around. He hears his mother’s sharp intake of breath, when little Ronnie – five years old, now – asks him why he doesn’t have any words. He feels the whole room freeze around him, but he just picks up his baby sister with a smile on his face, tells her it just means he’s got enough women in his life to take care of already. He presses a kiss to her forehead and asks her to tell him what she thinks her soulmate will be like. He listens to her ramble, nods and offers words of encouragement along the way.

And then he excuses himself and goes for a long, _long_ run.

He runs, and he runs, and he runs. He runs through every part of the neighborhood he recognizes, out into some of the areas he doesn’t. He turns and he doubles back and he turns again. He runs until he can’t run anymore, until he’s damn near ready to throw up, collapsing against a brick wall in a louder-than-average alley.

There’s music pumping from within the building, and a glance up at the sign hanging above the open doorway makes him realize he’s not as lost as expected. Purely by coincidence, he finds himself outside the gym one of his buddies from school’s father owns. It’s one of those new boxing-slash-mixed-martial-arts type places, and though he’s never been all that interested in that type of thing before… he suddenly finds himself understanding how people might have the urge to throw a few punches, get some anger and aggression out.

The run hasn’t helped as much as he’d hoped it would, so when Mr. Miller steps out for a smoke, takes a good, long, scrutinizing look at him, and beckons him inside, Brock only wipes off his cheeks and follows after him.

Punching helps, it turns out.

Enough so that he signs up for the military before he’s even out of high school, earns himself more than an earful of shouting from his mother at _that_ news. But he tells her he needs to do this, tells her how he’s _good_ at fighting, that Coach Miller wants him to go pro, but he’d rather use his strength to protect people, rather fight for something more important than himself.

It placates her a bit. His mother thinks he’s being reckless because he doesn’t have any soulwords, thinks he’s worrying too much about it, needs to get his head on straight and realize he can still be perfectly happy even without a God-given true love. He understands where she’s coming from, especially now that she’s remarried and seems genuinely happy with Sal, but he promises her that it’s not _about_ that.

…It might be a _little_ about that.

Brock’s not the only person in the world without soulwords. Blanks aren’t exactly _common_ , really, but they’re not entirely unheard of, either. They’re maybe one in twenty? One in forty?

Some people theorize that all Blanks are simply broken bonds – one half of the pair having already died, or being tragically destined to die before the two ever get the chance to meet and say those life-altering first words. Infants and toddlers who die before childhood never have words, after all. Their other halves might still be living, walking around without any words on their bodies. Or then there’s the idea that both soulmates could be alive and well, even living full, happy lives, but just unlucky enough to never run into each other, never say those first fateful words. Brock almost thinks that theory sounds somehow worse, but it seems blasphemous or just otherwise _wrong_ for him to think he’d rather have a dead soulmate than one walking around but never be destined to run into them.

Either option is better than the alternative, though – the theory that some people just don’t _have_ soulmates, that for whatever reason, God had looked down upon some small percentage of the population and simply… deemed them unworthy of his gift.

He worries that’s the case.

It’s not like all soulbonds work out, though. Just because someone has the potential to be the perfect match for you doesn’t mean they’ll end up _meeting_ that potential. Relationships still take work, and God has that whole thing about _free will_ , after all. He can lay out all the signs in the world, but can’t make you choose to follow them. Horses and water and all that.

Some people choose not to pursue their soulmates when they meet them, either because they fancy themselves already in love, because there’s some initial bad impression that makes them sure the match won’t ever have a chance of working out, or because they’re simply determined to make their own choices and live their lives without any concern for _fate_ or _destiny_ or anything similar. Sometimes people meet their soulmates at the wrong time, when one of them isn’t ready to acknowledge their sexuality, or isn’t in the right place to start a relationship. (Sometimes soulmates _aren’t_ sexual or romantic in the first place, though that’s admittedly less common, and really only the norm for people who are asexual or aromantic themselves.) Sometimes people meet their soulmates, but don’t realize until it’s too late to exchange contact information.

Sometimes, the decisions people make along the way turn them into worse versions of themselves. Soulmates are about _potentials_ ; there’s no guarantee of happiness or sunshine and roses. There are healthy and unhealthy relationships – soulwords or no soulwords. Even soulmates sometimes give into their insecurities, lean into their darker tendencies, make decisions that set them up for failure. Being each other’s potential perfect match doesn’t magically fix these things, doesn’t create trust out of thin air, doesn’t stop someone from raising a fist in anger.

No, having words inked on your skin doesn’t mean it’ll always work out.

But Brock would’ve liked to’ve had the _chance_ , to’ve been _worthy_ of having that chance.

That’s never been in the cards for him, though, and so he chooses to work with what he’s got, chooses to do the most he can with his life, everything else be damned.

He goes into the Navy despite his mother’s protests, does well, gets tapped after a few years to go to BUD/S and see if he’s got what it takes to become a SEAL.

He’s three weeks into his first assignment post-SQT and post- the requisite pre-deployment training when one of the other guys in his unit joins him in the showers and makes an offhanded comment: “Fuck, Man; that sucks! I’m sorry.”

He thinks at first that maybe Jameson’s talking to someone else, but when a few seconds pass with no answer, Brock sends a glance over his left shoulder, sees it’s just the two of them in the room. He drags his hand out of his hair, rinses the shampoo from his fingers, and cocks his head to the side in question. “What was that?”

“I’m sorry,” the blond man repeats from a couple of stalls away, as he turns a handle and brings his own faucet creaking to life. Vaguely, the older man pulls a hand in toward himself and gestures to his shoulder.

Brock squints over at him, still certain he’s missed something, but he takes a moment to look down at his own shoulder, all the same. There’s no cut or other injury there – not that he’d expected there to be; the morning workout had been rough but nothing crazy, and he’s pretty sure he’d have remembered anything more serious than a simple bruise – but Jameson had seemed sincere, so he figures he has to at least check. “What the fuck you sorry for?” he asks, not unkindly, when he’s still unable to piece together what the hell they’re talking about.

“Your words, Man.”

“What?” he asks again, dumbly.

“Your _words_ ,” the blond stresses back, over-annunciating as if that’ll clear everything up.

And Brock’s suddenly squinting for another reason, now – this time trying to figure out if the Corpsman’s somehow already shitfaced at eight in the morning. “I don’t have any fucking words, Man.”

Jameson pulls a face, looks for a second like he’s doubting his own reality, then gestures for Brock to spin around. “On your back.”

“I don’t have any fucking words on my back,” he tells him, but nevertheless turns around and gets on with rinsing the shampoo from his hair.

The sound of wet footsteps snaps him back to attention, and he spins just in time to hold out an arm and warn the other man to stay out of his stall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands to know, a little less kindly this time.

But Jameson steps back, lifts his hands in a placating gesture, points – as much as he can with his palms still up in the air – toward Brock’s right shoulder. “Dude, I seriously don’t know if you’re fucking with me or not right now, Rumlow, but you’ve got words on your shoulder.” He makes a face, then, suddenly looks apologetic. “Or, fuck… Do you not want people to mention it? Am I being an ass by bringing it up?”

It takes a few solid moments for Brock to wrap his head around what’s he’s being told, to stare into the other man’s eyes and gauge that he’s not drunk or playing some kind of dumb joke. He lowers his arm, jerks a thumb back at himself. “I’ve got words on my shoulder?”

A nod. “Yeah, Man. You do.”

And his heart’s in his throat, all of the sudden, pulse quickening as a light buzzing sound echoes in his ears, and he can’t move fast enough. He looks over his left shoulder, then his right, tries to grab his upper arm and pull it so he can crane his neck back as far as possible, but he can’t make anything thing out.

He glances up at the other SEAL, nods pointedly, not quite sure why he has to prompt him the way he does: “Well? What the fuck do they say?”

Jameson grimaces, though, and his heart sinks to his stomach a bit. “Maybe you should take a look in the mirror, Man.”

“What do they—?” But he can sense the Corpsman doesn’t want to repeat whatever it is aloud, so he pushes out of the stall, scrambling to hit the water off as he goes, and he makes a beeline for the one good mirror he knows is hanging over one of the sinks around the corner.

He twists in front of the thing for a minute, tries to find an angle where he can see a good portion of his back, stops breathing the second he sees black ink in neat, feminine script.

 _He’s got a soulmate_.

After all this time, all these _years_ of thinking he somehow wasn’t good enough, he’s got a—

He hits an angle that lets him see the writing, can suddenly make out what it is the words are saying, even if the image is reversed in the mirror and it takes an extra few seconds for his brain to translate the whole thing.

He releases that breath, pulls his lips back into a tremulous smile. And he can’t help but laugh, the sound harsh, soulful, and more than a little bit self-deprecating. It rocks through him, starting small, but building quickly, until he has to turn back around, grab onto the sink for support as he bends at the waist and gasps for air. He laughs until his sides are aching and he drops down, bare ass hitting the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He laughs for another long minute. He has to wipe tears from his eyes before he can look back up at his squadmate, and he almost loses it again at the other man’s expression.

Poor Jameson’s just standing there looks positively terrified, clearly certain he’s going to have to manage a psychotic break, or, worse, have to console another naked man. Brock waves him off before he tries to _hug_ him or something like that, insists he’s fine.

“…You didn’t know?” the Corpsman asks quietly, voice gentle enough to soothe a spooked mare.

“I was Blank,” Brock reveals instead, before flashing another of those sardonic little smiles up at the other man. “Though looks like this won’t be that big of a difference, now, huh?”

“Maybe you should talk to Crenshaw,” Jameson suggests, naming the platoon’s Chaplain. The man’s alright – they’d all been introduced to him a few weeks ago, and Brock thinks the guy seems nice enough, but he’s not sure how much help that conversation will be.

“Yeah, maybe,” comes his non-committal reply, as he hauls him back up to his feet. He’s feeling antsy, again, though, and something tells him the last damn thing he needs is to _talk_ about it. He grabs a towel off the shelf, finally wraps it around himself as he makes his way toward the pile of exercise gear he’d left stranded in one of the corners. “I need a run.”

The other man sends a skeptical look his way, but seems to think better of pushing the issue. “You want company?”

He’s got his shorts pulled up and is working on his second shoe when he looks up, shakes his head, and strives to look as normal and casual as possible. “Nah, I’m good.” Jameson doesn’t look sold on it, though, so he gets his shoe on, pulls on a shirt, and claps a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “Really, Man. I’m _good_. I promise.”

“Alright,” the Corpsman allows, then moves to step out of the way of the exit. Brock offers him another encouraging nod as he makes his way out.

And then he runs. And he runs, and he runs, and he _runs_.

It’s doesn’t work as well as punching it out, doesn’t let him focus on the pain of getting punched back. All it does is give him more time to think, more time to dwell on the incredible fucking irony of his whole situation. He’s been Blank for twenty-six years, and _now_ , all of the sudden… now he’s got a soulmate? A soulmate _twenty-six years_ his junior, whose first words to him make it _pretty damn clear_ that the age difference will be the least of their issues.

He laughs as he runs – as he runs and he runs and he _runs_ – because _of fucking course_ this would be his life. It’s hilarious. _Truly_. He guesses he doesn’t have to worry about having been judged by God to be unworthy of true love or whatever, at least. He’s apparently worthy of having a soulmate. He’s just not worthy of having a fucking chance with her.

And – _Fuck!_ – but it’s somehow worse than not having one to begin with.

It turns out Jameson doesn’t actually believe he’s _good_ , after all, because two of his superior officers are waiting for him when he makes it back to his barrack. Brock would be upset about it, if it weren’t for the fact that the mandatory psych eval that follows actually helps remind him of one important detail:

His soulmate’s gonna have to be an adult before they meet, which means, if nothing else, that he’s got – what? – about eighteen years, _minimum_ , until they’re destined to meet? He’s guaranteed to live that long, guaranteed to make it through whatever missions the Navy chooses to send him on.

For a moment, he worries that the only reason he’s destined to live that long is because some higher up is going to decide he’s too much of a risk, that _knowing_ you’ll survive a mission makes you too likely to fuck up along the way. Other guys might not have met their soulmates yet, sure, but there’s a difference between knowing you’ll live long enough to be carried back to a tent and maybe meet your Nurse soulmate as you die in their arms, and knowing you’re gonna make it through the next _eighteen fucking years_.

They don’t send him home, though – at least not yet. They send him into the field, watch him like a fucking hawk, and check up on him more than once after every mission, but they send him, wait for him to mess up.

Knowing he’s going to make it through doesn’t make him any sloppier in training or in the field. He might be guaranteed to _survive_ some of these missions, but he’s not guaranteed to escape _uninjured_ , and he’d very much like to keep full use of all appendages and keep his pretty face, thank you very much. He’s evidently going to need to win over women the hard way, after all. And, just as importantly: the guys on his team aren’t all guaranteed to make it through any mission at all.

He doesn’t take the responsibility of being on a team lightly, and when they give him his own unit to command, he takes the responsibility of leadership even less so. He’s got men he’s got to protect every day, men who – unlike him – aren’t guaranteed to make it back alive. So, yeah, knowing he’ll somehow pull through the next mission makes Brock more confident going in, yes, but it doesn’t make him sloppy. Not even kind of.

It does make signing up for the more dangerous jobs easier, though – makes the cost/benefit analysis more one-sided, at the end of the day. He leads his team where some of the others don’t want to go, earns a reputation for bringing more of his guys home than expected. It draws attention, makes him climb up the ladder a bit quicker than most, puts him on peoples’ radar – puts him on _SHIELD’s_ radar.

His entrance screening includes questions meant to determine whether a soulmate could be a complicating factor to work as a field agent. He tells them what he’s already come to decide: it doesn’t matter. He spent the majority of his life thinking he was Blank, knowing he wouldn’t have that fairytale happily-ever-after. The words he’s got now just confirm what he’s always known.

They take him from the SEALS – some kind of intergovernmental expropriation – and put him in their own version of spec ops teams. Unlike the Navy, they don’t hesitate before sending him on the most difficult missions, and they don’t send a staff psychologist to him after every success.

He tells his mother he’s making a lateral move, that he’ll be home less between deployments, harder to reach between missions. She still thinks he’s throwing himself into dangerous situations because he doesn’t have any words. He’s long since decided that it’s better if she doesn’t know.

HYDRA asks about his words, too, and he gives them the same answer: it doesn’t matter – _she_ doesn’t matter – at least not in any way that’ll ever make him a blackmail target or anything like that, so if they’re looking for an unattached guy who’s not afraid of the harder missions...

It turns out they are, and so they appropriate him, too.

He does what he’s assigned to do, does it _well_.

He calls his mother less and less.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff are two hours from putting the final piece of their plans into play, two small steps away from orchestrating their coup de grâce on a high-value target, when they realize they’ve made a critical oversight.

The mission they’ve been working on – off and on, for _weeks_ now – involves a powerful crime syndicate that has managed to blackmail not one, but _four_ sitting heads of state, two key US senators, and the former assistant to one member of the World Security Council… not to mention the group has also gotten its hands on a weapon of mass destruction. It’s been a hell of a process just getting some names and faces, but Clint and Natasha have gotten it done, like they always do.

The evidence collection is always the hardest part of jobs like this, but they’ve woven such a beautiful, _intricate_ web of a trap this time. They have the perfect covers. They have all the tech they need, the dates, times, and locations of everything they could _possibly_ be required to know… but they don’t have the guest list. Or, well, actually they _do_ , but apparently there are some last-minute or off-the-books invitees, because Igor Kovalchuk is very much _not_ on the goddamn guest list, yet there he is, strolling right on into duPont Manor.

Natasha rewinds and replays the live video footage three times before she curses in five different languages and slaps the StarkPad down on the table.

“Honey, you’re starting to worry me,” Clint calls out from across their living room, tone silky and just a little bit teasing. He straightens his face at the dark glare that’s sent his way, clears his throat. “Right. Well, it’s a _no_ from Hill.” He holds up the phone still in his hand, gives it a pointed little shake.

The Russian stares back, gaze lethal. “Not _one_?”

He gives his head a slow shake, offers the next best thing: “Morse is just outside of Chicago…?”

It’ll take too long, though, and they both know it.

They’re two hours from clicking into place this final piece of their trap, and the nearest female SHIELD operative they trust – or, at least, the nearest female SHIELD operative they trust who _hasn’t_ had any recent assignments in Eastern Europe and therefore _wouldn’t_ potentially have her cover blown by _Igor fucking Kovalchuk_ – is in D.C., Chicago, or is otherwise occupied and unable to be pulled from her current mission.

It would take two hours just to pull someone else in.

It takes ten minutes to grab Darcy Lewis from Foster’s new lab on the thirty-sixth floor of Stark Tower.

It’s an easy mission – safe, no reason at all for a firefight – so they figure everything should be fine.

\---x---

“Did you… have this three thousand dollar dress in my size just _lying around_ somewhere?” She’s been wondering it since she was handed the damn thing, but it’s only when she’s got it on and is actually looking at her reflection in the small college-dorm-like mirror that Darcy finally asks the question out loud.

They’re in the back of one of those high-tech surveillance vans, she and Nat – the ones with the extended roof space that give you _just_ enough room to stand in, that feel almost more like a small shuttle or RV than an actual van – and Darcy can’t help but stare incredulously at her friend.

From where she’s sitting in one of the two office chairs next to the large, multi-monitor computer setup, the redhead arches a single, delicately shaped brow. “You never know when a woman is going to need a little black dress. It’s a very practical investment.”

“Yeah, but… This is more than just a _little black dress_ ,” Darcy is quick to object, looking down at the luxurious fabric that clings to her in all the right places. “Nat, this is _incredible_. _Stunning_. It’s basically a work of art, and it looks like it was created specifically to fit me.”

“You say that as if you believe I would _ever_ put you in something unfit to properly complement your natural beauty.”

And that’s flattering, truly, but it also begs the necessary question: “How did you even know my measurements?”

The only answer she receives is a secretive smile, before the woman turns her attention back to one of the monitors, leaving Darcy to reflect on just how the hell her life had gone from half-homeless couch-surfing and living off Pop-Tarts with Jane less than a year ago to living in Stark Tower, getting tossed a three thousand dollar dress, and being last-minute invited to a super swanky, highly exclusive event on an average Tuesday evening.

Honestly, she’s not sure why her super spy friends bothered to try and bribe her when they practically abducted her from Jane’s lab – the chance to wear a dress, eat fancy finger foods, and channel her inner _Emily Gilmore_ would’ve been inducement enough to get her to go along with any plan – but Nat offered her a favor in return, and Darcy knows better than to turn down a favor from the Black Widow. 

There’s a clunking sound, and the back door of the van opens up to reveal a tuxedoed Clint Barton. He slips inside and pulls the door shut behind him, raps his knuckles against his partner’s shoulders in habitual greeting, and finally sends a glance in the brunette’s direction. His eyebrows skyrocket as he takes in her appearance. “ _Damn_ , Darce! You look _good_. If I was single…“

“And twenty years younger,” Natasha interjects archly, eyes not moving from the monitor before her. Her fingers set a rapid pace, flying over the keys and doing something entirely too complicated for Darcy to comprehend.

The archer doesn’t appear offended by the jab, instead just sends a saucy wink in the younger woman’s direction. “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number, Baby,” he tells Nat as he steps closer to Darcy with a teasing glint in his eye. Tossing an arm up against the side of the van just above her shoulder, he juts his chin out a bit to an angle she’s sure he’s practiced more than once in the mirror, then leans down just a fraction. “You’d go out with me, wouldn’t you?”

Darcy hums out a noncommittal response, leans in a bit herself as she lifts a hand and teasingly runs her fingers up his arm. “I’d _stay in_ with you,” she answers instead, sending him a wink of her own. “You have nice biceps.”

He groans and pitches his voice low for dramatic effect, leans in even closer until their faces are only inches away. “That so, Baby Girl?”

And Darcy’s trying _so hard_ not to laugh, but she can’t quite keep her expression neutral, and the sharp, victorious grin that answers her makes it clear Clint notices.

It’s no surprise to either of them when they break away and see Clint’s soulmate leaning back in her chair, watching the two of them with a complete and utter lack of concern. If anything, the redhead appears… _contemplative._ She tilts her head to the side. “If it’s arms that do it for you, I’ve got three different men and one woman I could set you up with this Friday night.”

Darcy finally pushes the archer away from her, gives her head a shake at her friend’s relentlessness. Nat’s been in a matchmaking mood, she knows – and honestly she half thinks the opportunity to continue pitching coworkers is half the reason the superspies even grabbed her for this mission in the first place. She appreciates it, she _does_ , but… “I don’t need any more blind dates right now.”

The redhead scoffs. “You are young and attractive. Your weekends should be spent doing things more fun than feeding Pop-Tarts to overworked scientists and watching marathons of bad television.”

“She’s got a point,” Clint weighs in from where he’s moved to fiddle with some of the tech.

Darcy scowls at the back of his head before turning her attention back to the matter at hand. “Dude. Netflix is releasing an _entire_ season of their knockoff _Bachelorette_. It’s supposed to be _that_ , mixed with some _Magic Mike_ and somehow also a little bit of _Burlesque_ , but _actually_ feminist. _Of course_ Jane and I are binge-watching it the day it comes out!”

“You are not thinking about the correct hierarchy of needs, here. Good sex, _then_ bad TV.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, sends her friend a pointed look. “And how many of these people you have in mind are currently single?”

A pause, then a grudging correction: “I have _two_ different men and one woman I could set you up with this Friday night.”

“Mhmm,” she hums out. They’ve been down this road before. “And if you subtract anyone affiliated with _SHIELD_ from that list?”

“I’ve seen your soulmark, _Milaya_ ,” the Russian asserts. “I think you’re dismissing my selections out of hand.”

Darcy glowers at the reminder, but argues back just as quickly: “We don’t know the _context_. My soulmate could be any number of things – a doctor, a wrestler, a fashion designer, a crime scene tech, a veteran who now owns a pizza parlor, a neat freak, someone who watches too much daytime television… an average everyday serial killer. You don’t know! Doesn’t have to be a jackbooted thug. Personally, my money’s on doctor.”

Natasha is unswayed, and, by the looks of it, unamused. “Let me set you up on Friday.”

Darcy tries a different tactic. “Who says I’m looking to meet my soulmate right now, anyway? Maybe I just wanna have some fun with a hottie I’ll never have to see at work.”

From where he stands, Clint snaps his fingers twice, points, and switches sides. “She’s got a point.”

Neither woman pays him any mind, both too busy staring at each other – the redhead’s gaze assessing and the brunette’s more than a little bit stubborn.

“Fine,” the older woman finally concedes.

“ _Thank you!”_

“ _Next_ Friday, then.”

Darcy sags, huffs out an exasperated sigh, then perks right back up only a second later. “Nice arms, you said?”

A Cheshire-like smile answers her. “I’ll make the arrangements,” the spy declares, before tilting her head in the direction of their third companion. “Now, time to go pretend you actually like this idiot.”

Clint claps a hand to his chest and feigns offense. “Excuse me! Darcy _loves_ me,” he insists. “She’d _stay in_ with me. She told me that herself. Don’t get nasty just because you’re jealous.”

The brunette rolls her eyes – an action that undoubtedly would’ve been echoed by the redhead, had the older woman not been entirely too classy for that sort of thing – and extends an arm in the archer’s direction, palm up and fingers wiggling pointedly. She’s forced to roll her eyes _once again_ when he mistakes her cue, placing his own palm in hers and stepping into her so he can pull her body flush against his. He’s got a cocky grin on his face as he guides her hands to his shoulders, slips one of his around her lower back and brings the other up to her cheek, dips his head a bit and smolders down at her.

“I love you too, Baby Girl,” he tells her, as if her extended arm had been meant as a loving request to bring him closer.

Darcy arches a brow in what she hopes is a very Widow-esque move, leans back a fraction. “Yeah… I just wanted the jewelry, Hot Stuff.”

The couples’ reactions are mirror opposites, as Clint immediately scowls and Natasha’s lips twitch upwards in amusement. “Aw, look at you two, already acting like a married couple,” she drawls. She reaches a foot out, gives a light kick to her soulmate’s thigh. “Give her the rings and get moving, _Hot Stuff_.”

The archer grumbles under his breath about _ungrateful women_ , but nevertheless disentangles himself, pulls a jewelry box out of his pocket, and tosses it in Darcy’s direction. He slips a gold band on his own finger, looking up in time to see the younger woman’s awe-filled reaction as she admires the matching wedding band and the gorgeous round-cut diamond on the engagement ring. “Don’t get too attached,” he warns her, even as his own expression softens considerably. “They’re SHIELD’s; we have to give them back.”

“Not that they ever returned my iPod,” comes the still-slightly-salty reply, “but _I know_ , don’t worry. I’m just appreciating the sparkly while I have the chance.” Her eyes cut up to Natasha’s as she slips the rings on, tosses the empty box toward the sitting super spy, and adds: “My crime scene tech soulmate won’t be able to afford something this nice, unfortunately.”

“Feels like a downgrade from doctor,” the archer notes.

His soulmate points out, instead: “Any half-decent field agent would be able to steal them for you.”

Darcy waves both comments away with her spare hand, still looking down at the rings in longing. “Not a jack-booted thug,” she reiterates, before letting out a sigh and finally tearing her gaze away. “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Comm check,” the Widow requests.

A nod from the archer who’s wearing a hidden earpiece, then a brief “ _One, two_ ,” that the headset his soulmate holds to her ear must register, if her answering nod is anything to go on. He holds up the bug they were going to be placing on the target, repeats his test, gets another nod, then tucks the thing away in his pocket.

“Why don’t I get an ear thing?” Darcy wonders aloud.

Natasha’s answer is blunt, but fair: “Because you put your hand to your ear whenever someone speaks to you or you speak to them.”

She tilts her head, acknowledging the point. It doesn’t make her pout any less, though.

“Alright.” With a clap of his hands, Clint makes his way to the door of the van, hops out, and extends a hand. “You ready, Mrs. Wright?”

Darcy accepts the help graciously, flashes a smile as she steps down out of the van and chirps out a pleasant “ _of course, Mr. Wright._ ” She hears it the second she says it, pauses for a moment of reflection, then barks out a loud laugh. “Oh my god, did you guys _actually_ choose these names so you could call each other _Mr._ and _Mrs. Right_?”

And Clint looks entirely too pleased with himself for that to not be the case, but he says nothing to confirm or deny the accusation. Natasha has no such compunction. “I told you he was an idiot,” she chimes in from where she still sits in front of the computer, surveillance tech all ready to go. She doesn’t let the conversation linger, instead sends them both a pointed glance. “Now _go_.”

Clint slides the door closed. “In and out,” he reminds Darcy as he takes her hand and tucks it near his elbow. “We schmooze a couple of wealthy bad guys and their wives, I plant a bug and get my private meeting with our guy set up, and we’re out. All you gotta do is pretend to give a shit about whatever it is these vultures talk about, and not throw a drink in anyone’s face if they say something offensive.”

She laughs, leaning into him as they start walking the block and a half to the building’s entrance. “Oh, _now_ I see why you took my Taser away. You know me too well, Husband.”

He grins down at her, then promptly ducks his head and snorts, his gaze darting to the side and back in a subtle way of telling her he’s listening to his soulmate through the comms.

“What is it?” she prompts, curiosity getting the better of her when he doesn’t immediately fill her in.

“Nat wants to know how you think a doctor will ever be able to handle you _and_ the Taser.”

Darcy suddenly wishes she hadn’t asked.

\--x--

Turns out that whole _pretend-to-give-a-shit-and-don’t-throw-drinks-at-anyone_ thing is easier said than done, because, apparently, the super wealthy people who frequent these functions – or at least the super wealth people that Clint is making her stand around and talk to – are all _intolerable assholes_.

It’s not all bad. The night starts off pretty fun, actually, and Darcy enjoys the opportunity to play a role and improvise while staying as in character as she can. She’s decided her alter ego for the night, Claire Wright, is a demanding housewife who spends most of her day ordering the household staff around like little minions, thinking of ways to spend her husband’s money (on at least _semi-_ practical things, because Claire is not completely unreasonable… just a bit of a snob), and donating money to charities more because it’ll make her look good than because she actually cares.

The first hour is fun enough, because she gets to feign offense at Clint having forgotten an important anniversary date (it wasn’t _just_ their wedding date they were supposed to celebrate, after all; how could he _possibly_ forget about the anniversary of the day they’d brought home their imaginary Chihuahua?), gets to guilt him into taking her for a spin around the dance floor (waltzing seems _way more fun_ when you don’t actually know what the steps are), _and_ actually gets one of the other couples talked into donating money to a local STEM program focusing on providing resources to lower-income girls in the area ( _“It’s a wonderful charity, really, and can you imagine some of their schools don’t even have the money for a simple microscope? The horror!”_ ).

She has fun.

But then Clint abandons her about an hour into the whole thing, running off to go ‘discuss business’ with their target, and leaving her to deal with the vultures alone.

Darcy’s prepared to talk about international travel ( _“Wait, do you not own a summer home in Kensington? Darling, you’re missing out!”_ ), about how absolutely depressing it must be to be poor (she gets a particular kick out of mentioning ‘horror stories’ she ‘heard from her staff’ that really are things she personally experienced during her struggling-unpaid-Science!-intern days), and about how difficult it is to find a good housekeeper these days (the Wright’s current housekeeper, she imagines, just _cannot_ understand that her towels need to be hanging on the _left_ side of the tub, because that rack is easier to reach, and Mr. Wright never takes a bath, really, anyways… and _do not even get her_ _started_ on the pillow fiasco from last Tuesday!).

She’s _not_ prepared to have to stand there and smile at a few dozen incredibly racist comments, nearly twenty minutes’ worth of slut shaming, _and_ what has to be the rudest exchange she has ever witnessed between a patron receiving free food and a clearly-overworked-but-still-trying-to-be-friendly member of the wait staff. Mrs. Eliza Forrester has the poor woman nearly in tears by the end of her tirade, and Darcy has to _actually_ bite her tongue in order to stop herself from jumping to the young waitress’s defense. It’s one thing making up complaints and gossiping about imaginary staff, but actually ridiculing an innocent young woman to her face? That’s another thing entirely.

Not for the first time, Darcy wishes she had her trusty Taser with her, has to _really_ work to resist the urge to toss her drink in the woman’s haughty, condescending, _stupid_ face. Fighting to keep her expression neutral, she carefully relaxes her hold on the crystal stem, lifts the glass to her mouth and knocks back the rest of the Bordeaux, instead. Doing so eliminates the temptation to do something like _throw the drink at the woman_ , has the added benefit of getting her just a bit closer to intoxication – which she now sort of thinks might be the only way to survive this evening – and also, even better, gives her a pretense to _get the fuck away_ from the conversation for a moment.

No one bats an eye when she excuses herself in the name of procuring a refill.

…The _bartender_ bats an eye when she downs the entire first glass he gives her and immediately asks for another, but when she elaborates ( _“I’m trying not to slap any of these people.”_ ) he parts his lips and raises a hand in the universal gesture of _say no more!_ and gets right on with pouring her another – this time _very_ generous – glass.

Claire Wright sometimes indulges in just a bit too much wine, Darcy decides in the moment, revising her mental character profile. Her husband finds it endearing, though, because Nathaniel Wright likes how a couple extra glasses make her loosen up on her exacting standards enough to stop nagging him and be a little more fun in the bedroom. Darcy nods to herself, thinks this additional backstory works pretty damn well, if she does say so herself. Clint will play along. He’s fun like that.

Satisfied with the plan and already starting to feel the effects of the glass and a half she’s downed in the last couple of minutes, Darcy thanks the bartender – there’s an explicit no tips policy at this function, or she’d happily slide him some of SHIELD’s expense money – and turns to head back to the table…

…only to promptly walk _right_ into an unsuspecting man.

His jaw catches her in the forehead. The glass in her hand thunks against his waist. She instinctively brings her free hand up toward her face, realizes too late that she’s focusing on the wrong hand, and ends up jostling the wine glass worse than before when she yanks it back and tries to steady it between them. Bordeaux sloshes to and fro, spilling out over the rim and drenching the front of her dress and the front of the man’s tuxedo.

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!” an irritable male voice exclaims, before she even has a second to process what’s happened, let alone open her mouth to apologize. “Are you _kidding_ me? Do you not know how to look where you’re going? This is _Armani_! What the hell is wrong with you?”

And Darcy was planning on apologizing profusely – she really was! – but when the asshole in front of her decides to go full rampage rather than understandable irritation, that plan of hers goes right out the window. She’s back to trying _real hard_ not to throw drinks in peoples’ face – or, well, what’s _left_ of her drink in _one particular_ person’s face… but still. Instead of giving into the urge, she simply blinks back at him, unrepentant and uncowed, then drawls out an answer to his question: “Well, for starters, some jackass was standing two inches behind me, and now I have to listen to a grown man throw a hissy fit because he got bumped into, and – what’s worse! – I have to listen to it sober because I spilled my wine.”

The guy looks ready to continue with his temper tantrum, but a glance around the room seems to have him reconsidering. Apparently determining her to be no longer worth his time, he settles on making a noise of disgust. “Just get out of my way,” he growls, not even giving her the chance to move before pushing past her and stalking off into the crowd.

Darcy’s bravado falters the second the confrontation is over, and she finally lets herself address the fact that _she just spilled half a glass of wine down the front of the_ _three thousand dollar dress_ _Natasha had given her_. She’s been in the thing for – what? – an hour and a half? And she’s already nearly ruined it? It costs more than literally all of Jane’s equipment they’d had back in New Mexico, for crying out loud!

Letting out a litany of particularly creative curses, she holds the hand with the glass away from her body, hinging at the waist and using her spare hand to try and flick some of the liquid away while she assesses the damage. It’s not until she feels a slight pressure on the glass that she remembers she’s surrounded by uptight wealthy snobs and should probably be watching her tongue, should maybe _not_ be cursing quite so colorfully in the middle of this particular crowd. She looks up, half expecting to see the scowling face of someone offended by her language or annoyed to have her standing there taking up space and holding out a dripping wine glass, but instead her gaze falls on a man with crinkled eyes and a mouth quirked up at the edges.

He’s got a good mouth, she realizes. He’s got a good… well, _everything_ , actually. Even with her mind preoccupied with the ridiculously expensive gown she’d just spilled wine all over, she can’t help but take a second to appreciate the view; he’s older than her, older than the man she’d just unintentionally drenched with Bordeaux, too, but with stubble lining his chiseled jaw and the thick locks of his undercut perfectly coiffed, he’s the picture of masculine vitality. Darcy can’t help but be a little bit captivated… and then just as quickly _thoroughly embarrassed_ to be standing there in front of him in a wine-soaked dress, undoubtedly looking frazzled and half-panicked. Her only consolation is that she’s absolutely _certain_ her cheeks had already been flushed from the wine and the earlier embarrassment, so she’s sure he can’t tell that she’s blushing. ...Because she is. Most definitely. There's no way she's not, really. Not with how warm she suddenly feels.

She watches as he extends an arm toward the bar, points and snaps his fingers twice, then snatches a cloth serviette out of the air. **“Here you go,”** he says as he smoothly trades her for the glass, and it’s not until he nods down at her that she realizes she’s just standing there dumbly when she should be patting herself down with the serviette she’d just been given. She jolts into action, flashing a thankful-but-embarrassed smile up at him before turning her focus back to the dress and cursing under her breath when she realizes exactly how soaked the fabric is. **“Hey,”** the man continues a second later, dipping his head to catch her gaze. **“Fuck him.”** His lips twist into a conspiratorial little smirk, both brows of his giving a playful little lift. **“Don’t worry about it. You chose the right color for this, huh? Hides red wine and bloodstains just fine.”**

And she’s standing there dumbly once again, but this time she’s got a good reason. His words resonate deep within her, recognition and excitement sparking in her chest, because she _knows those words_! She’s waited twenty-five years to hear them spoken aloud, has spent entirely too many late nights tracing with her finger where they run down the front of her upper arm in three crisp lines, has spent _years_ wondering what the hell she’ll be doing when she hears them. Spilling something on herself had _definitely_ been one of the possibilities she’d imagined, but she hadn’t expected it to be an incredibly expensive designer gown she spilled on, and she _really_ hadn’t expected to feel so immediately drawn to the man standing in front of her.

She does, though – feel _drawn_ , that is. For a long moment, it’s as if nothing else in the world matters, as if they’re the only two people in it, and Darcy’s not sure if that’s how it always feels when you meet your soulmate, or if she’s just being hopelessly romantic and overdramatic.

Is it normal to want to kiss a perfect stranger? Because she definitely wants to kiss this man, wants to feel that stubble of his against her cheek as he trails his lips down her neck, wants to run her hands through that gravity-defying hair of his. She _wants_.

But before she can act on any of those urges, before she can so much as open her mouth and say something to him, reality comes crashing in, in the form of Clint fucking Barton appearing in her peripheral vision with an older, heavy-set man at his side. She sees the coming disaster in slow-motion, realizes she’s got maybe twenty seconds – if that – before Clint and their target will be within earshot, realizes that whatever she says next to the incredible specimen of a man in front of her will alert him that she’s his soulmate, realizes just how much of a complete clusterfuck this whole thing is about to become.

Their target is responsible for untold damage and has weapons of mass destruction in his possession, set to be sold to the highest bidder. Clint and Natasha spent weeks building up their covers, working to get a seat at that table, and this meeting tonight is last thing left to check off before that can happen. Their target is a cautious man, the kind that needs to get to know someone before he’s willing to do business with them. That’s why they’re here tonight, why Darcy has to fill in and pretend to be the lovely Claire Wright – Clint mentioned having a wife, and the guy insisted on meeting her.

Clint _also_ mentioned that his wife is his soulmate.

Cue disaster waiting to happen.

Darcy’s normally pretty good at spotting and preventing potential disasters – one has to be when working with sleep-deprived scientists – and she likes to think she’s pretty good at thinking on her feet, at coming up with a plan on the fly.

She struggles to think of one now, though, struggles to figure out _how on earth_ she can prevent this train wreck from happening. There are people counting on her, innocent people in danger if these weapons fall into the wrong hands, and whatever she says next has the potential to destroy all the hard work Clint and Natasha have put into this plan. Lives are quite literally hanging in the balance.

Darcy knows going to have to say _something_ to her soulmate – she sort of can’t _not_ right now, not when Clint and the target are going to arrive in only a few seconds, when she’ll undoubtedly then be stuck trying to answer questions about what’s going on without saying a word to her soulmate and without making it obvious that she’s _refusing_ to say a word to him.

No, she needs to say something now, while she has the opportunity, but she doesn’t have time to explain, doesn’t have time to do anything other than try to get her soulmate away from the situation as fast as possible. But how can she do that with only her first words to him?

Inspiration strikes, and she tries to communicate with her eyes that she needs this perfect match of hers to _say nothing_ , to leave without asking questions or trying to argue with her once he realized who she was to him.

Clint’s maybe fifteen seconds out, so she says the only thing she can think to say.

 **“Have you met my husband?”** she asks. **“I can introduce you…?”**

\--x--

Brock swears he can feel the world spinning beneath his feet, can feel it stop for just a moment, hesitate on its axis.

One second, he’s making friendly conversation with a stranger – (He’s being maybe a little flirtatious, sure, but who can blame him, really? He’s here for business, not pleasure, but he’s never been opposed to mixing the two, and a dark-haired beauty with a mouth like a sailor and body built for sin is pretty much his kryptonite. He’s only been at this thing for two minutes, anyway. He has a few minutes to spare before he needs to track down Pierce’s associate and escort the little weasel back to D.C., and his presence will look less suspicious if he mingles for a bit, looks like he belongs.) – and she’s looking back up at him with an expression he recognizes; he sees the way she lights up, sees the slight dilation in her eyes as she takes him in, sees the way those crimson-painted lips of hers stretch into a slow, wide smile.

The next second, everything about her body language changes, and it’s not until she opens her mouth and speaks that he understands what went wrong.

He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, like he’s floating on clouds, like everything is right in the world, and like he’s just been doused in ice water and ripped limb from limb. It’s an indescribable, entirely too complicated feeling for a man who lives his life endeavoring to never feel a damned thing.

He tries to lock down his reaction, tries to focus instead on cataloging _hers_. She’s clutching that towel thing he’d given her hard enough that her knuckles are white, and she sends an anxious little glance over his shoulder, flashes a strained smile in his direction, big doe eyes of hers silently pleading with him. She’s only a step down from full-on panicking, he can tell, and now that she’s spoken to him, he knows why.

She’s worried about what he’ll do or say next.

Because _she’s his soulmate_.

His soulmate who is _married_.

His soulmate who is married and who _very clearly does not want her husband to know what is going on_.

And – _fuck him_! – but she’s _gorgeous_!

He’d known this was coming, of course, had long since come to terms with it, but _fuck_! Why’d she have to be so gorgeous? Why couldn't she have at least looked younger, more _college-aged kid_ and less _his ideal version of a woman_? He's been thinking of her in the abstract, has spent _years_ referring to her in his mind as _The Kid_ _,_ trying to separate her somehow from the idea of a soulmate. (" _You've got years before you're going to meet The Kid, and she's gonna be married, anyways, so why the fuck_ not _bring this woman home?"_ he'd ask himself. Or: " _The Kid's gotta be - what? - twenty, now? Christ, you're getting old, you sad son of a bitch._ ") He expected the mental distancing would help, would remind him he has no fucking chance with this soulmate of his, but he'd never expected she'd be so... _everything_. He didn't think it'd be as hard as it is.

He’s thought about this moment, off and on – has thought about what he’s going to do, has debated the pros and cons of all the options available to him. Does he smile and shake the hand of the undoubtedly much younger man who’s beaten him to the altar with _his_ soulmate? Does he need to give some incredibly strange version of the _shovel_ talk to a complete stranger he’s spent the last twenty-odd years coming to loathe just a little bit? Does he make some wry joke at their situation, or does he simply wish her well and be on his way?

Trying to seduce her away from her husband and break up their marriage hasn’t ever been on the table, though. It’s never been an option. Brock’s not that guy, not the kind of person who can try to drive a wedge between a happily married couple, not the kind of man who can stand to set his soulmate’s whole life aflame… even if there is a part of him that wants nothing more in that moment than to watch the world burn.

Well, he wants _one_ thing more than that.

He wants her to have her happiness – he really and truly does – but when she shifts to gesture at someone behind him, someone who can only be her husband, Brock realizes with a sudden intensity that he _can’t_. He can’t begrudge her for falling in love, for marrying someone she truly cares about, but he also can’t be there to witness it firsthand, can’t just stand there and watch her smile up in adoration at the man who’d gotten there before him.

“No, no, that’s okay, that’s okay,” he tells her then, starts to pull away before she can bring that husband of hers into the conversation. But then she opens her mouth to speak, looks up at him with that incredibly _torn_ expression, and he’s only just met her, but already he can’t stand to see her unhappy. “Hey, now…” he murmurs as soothingly as he can manage. And he can’t resist the opportunity to touch her – just the once, while he has the chance – so he steps closer to her, tries to arrange a convincing or at the least understanding smile on his face, and he lets his fingers ever so lightly brush against her arm. “I’m happy for you, Sweetheart. _Really_. You take care of yourself, yeah?”

He brushes past her, then, hand dropping down to his side as he sets his gaze on the nearest door to _any room but here_ and heads straight for it.

He runs – _figuratively_ , this time, because _literally_ isn’t currently an option.

He’s got shit he needs to do before he can leave this godforsaken party, so running will have to wait until he’s back in D.C. ...Unless Pierce’s guy tries to give him the slip, that is. Brock almost hopes that he does, _definitely_ hopes that the guy at least puts up a fight.

He could use an excuse to throw a few punches right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to thank each and every one of you who took the time to comment and leave kudos on the last chapter. You've all given me such an incredible welcome to the taserbones community, and I can't say enough how much I appreciate it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roll film _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_.

There’s a long list of things Darcy finds objectionable enough to be considered torture. Jane knows this list, has read through it and has even added an item or two, because it’s an actual, _physical_ list that Darcy provided to Tony Stark the same day Jane accepted his offer for a job, housing, healthcare, and all the shiny new lab tech money could buy.

The contract Tony gave Jane is ridiculously complicated and full of legalese, attempting to account for all of the possible eventualities of working in a tower full of superheroes. Not to say Stark tried to work his way _out_ of any kind of liability – if anything, the contract is overly thorough in _assuming_ liability for various, highly unlikely situations, and lists out every meticulous safety precaution that the company has enacted in order to make those scenarios even _less_ likely. Darcy and Jane have no doubt that they’ll be taken care of if there ever is an accident or an act of terrorism targeting the tower or anything. It’s a very fair contract. … _And_ it includes very detailed information about the compensation owed to any Stark employee in the event they are subject to torture in any way because of their employment at Stark Industries.

Hence: the list.

It’s a good list, full of diverse items ranging from _being forced to run any quantifiable distance for reasons other than emergencies_ to _making Jane cry_ to _anyone touching her personal stash of coffee without explicit authorization._ All things Darcy claims are tantamount to torture.

All things she’d take _in a heartbeat_ right now, because _she was wrong_. Her whole list is bullshit. None of those things are torture. None of those things are even remotely close to qualifying, she realizes, because now – _finally_ – Darcy knows what true torture is, and it’s watching your soulmate walk away and not being able to do anything to stop him. It’s having to stand there with a goddamn smile on your face, pretend your heart isn’t breaking… pretend it’s not all _your_ fault.

She can still feel his touch on her arm – Sexy Understanding Soulmate Guy’s touch – even as Clint puts an arm around her waist, pulls her to his side, and drops a kiss to her temple. The motion makes her lose track of her soulmate in the crowd, and she has to fight back the urge to run after him, has to try and lock down all of her emotions, because _there is no other option._

She’s got people counting on her – Nat, and Clint, and all those nameless, faceless innocents who could be killed in a heartbeat if she fucks this up and Clint doesn’t end up winning over this guy and getting invited to the sale. She can do this. She can pretend everything is normal, charm the shit out of this evil asshole, and then, _the second they’re done_ , she can track down that other half of hers and explain the whole thing.

He’ll understand, she’s sure. He’s already proven he’s probably the most understanding guy in the universe.

But their target is talking to her, now, so she has to focus, has to smile again, nod, offer her hand, and watch as he brings it to his lips. It takes a second for the blood pumping in her ears to die down, for her brain to catch up to what’s happening in the conversation. “It’s been such a pleasure getting to meet you, Claire,” their target is saying. “I know you have another engagement this evening, so I won’t keep you longer than I already have, but I simply couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye.”

“If I could push it – believe me! – I would,” Clint says with a slightly overdramatic sigh, “but you know how mothers-in-law are.”

The heavy-set man chuckles in that slightly-conceited way of his, extends a hand to clap on Clint’s shoulder. “I do, indeed,” he agrees, before turning his attention back on Darcy. “But we must do this again, yes? I feel as though I barely got the chance to spend any time with you earlier, and Nathaniel and I will be working together for a while, now, I should think. What would you say to joining my wife and I for an afternoon at our country club, maybe early next month? Monterey’s gorgeous this time of year, and I know Suzanne would _love_ it if you would attend.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful!” she responds in character, fixing yet another smile on her face as she lifts a hand (the one _not_ holding the serviette) to press against Clint’s chest. “Just let Nathaniel know the details, and I’ll make sure our schedule is clear and the jet is fueled.”

Her partner-in-crime gives her a squeeze, confirms: “Any time. We’re sorry to have to cut it short tonight…”

The apology is waved away. “Oh, none of that,” he dismisses as he starts to step back, pausing to point a finger in their direction. “Monterey, perhaps on the eighth? I’ll be in touch!”

“Looking forward to it!” Clint assures. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A nod, and their target turns to leave. Darcy holds her smile for a long moment, leaning into the archer and playing the role of the doting housewife until she’s absolutely _certain_ he’s out of range and won’t be sending a glance over his shoulder. The second she figures it’s safe to speak, she starts to step back, already craning her neck to see if she can catch a glimpse of now-familiar dark hair.

She’s about to fill Clint in – as subtly as possible and with at least one code word in mind – but he beats her to the chase, tightening his grip and whispering in her ear, “Time to go!”

And _yeah_ , she gets that their job is done and they’re ready to wrap the whole thing up, but Darcy’s having none of that. “Wait,” she tells him. “There’s someone I need to—“

“Darce, Babe,” he interrupts, voice low enough to avoid being overheard and firm enough to make it clear he means business. “We gotta get out of here – _now!_ – or my cover’s gonna get blown and this’ll all be for nothing.”

And – _shit!_ – yeah, that sounds important.

She looks up at him, notes the way he’s scanning the crowd himself, keeping his head tucked into her in a way that partially hides him from view. He’s still smiling and playing the role of the relaxed partygoer, of course, but Darcy sees his tells, knows he’s not fucking around.

She nods. “How much time?”

“Negative, Baby Girl,” he returns, finishing his subtle sweep of their surroundings before looking back down at her. “Mutual contact just arrived. Nearest exit’s behind you and to the left. Come on.”

She nods again, as he turns and steers her toward the identified exit. A part of her feels like she should be panicking, as she lets her friend lead her out into the cool night air, knowing she’s walking in the _wrong_ direction, but she’s numb to it all of the sudden. She feels like she’s in shock, as she focuses on keeping up with Clint’s pace without tripping in her heels. She tries to come up with a plan, tries to strategize, but her head feels foggy, and it’s only _partially_ the wine’s fault.

She’s numb, still, when they make it back to the van, when Clint helps her get in, hops in himself, and then pulls the door shut behind him.

“You said you saw Rumlow enter the building?” the archer asks, already starting to loosen his bowtie as he steps up behind his soulmate and looks at the computer monitors as if they’ll have a magic answer for him.

“Surveillance cam caught him coming in the southwest entrance,” Natasha confirms. “You’re lucky you missed him.”

And Darcy has more important things to think about – she obviously does – but she can’t help but want to know what it was that almost blew Clint’s cover… know _who_ it was that cost her the opportunity to go after her soulmate. So she demands to know, “Who’s Rumlow?”

Clint cuts a glance in her direction, bowtie now hanging from his hand, and fills her in quickly: “He’s SHIELD. A STRIKE Commander.”

Ugh. _More_ jackbooted thugs. Darcy’s suddenly glad they got out of there when they did, glad they didn’t get sucked into a longer conversation with another uptight, by-the-book jock. She’s glad Clint’s cover didn’t get blown, too, of course, but she’s almost more glad to have dodged the SHIELD agent bullet. Nat and Clint are basically the only agents she’s ever even kind of liked, and – besides! – she’s got more important things on her mind.

Nat does, too, apparently, because when Darcy looks over at her, the redhead is looking contemplative once again, head tilted ever so slightly to the left as she eyes the brunette in consideration. “Now _there’s_ an idea,” she hums out, gives her younger friend a quick once-over. “ _Rumlow_.”

And Darcy realizes she _knows_ that assessing look, knows that particular thoughtful hum. She draws a line in the sand, straightens up and points a scolding finger the assassin’s way. “ _No_.” It’d have been a _no_ before tonight, too, because _could they just stop with the jackbooted thugs already please?_ but it’s especially a _no_ after everything that just happened. She _really_ doesn’t need any more blind dates, hopefully ever. “I mean it, Nat. _No_.”

Clint looks between the two women, brow furrowed, before aiming a skeptical frown his soulmate’s way. “ _Rumlow_?” he repeats, as if he’s unsure he caught the name right… as if they hadn’t just been talking about this particular colleague of theirs only a second ago.

“You disagree?” The other spy tilts her head back a fraction, defends her suggestion: “He’s attractive, he’s a bit sarcastic, and he has nice arms. You know if he’s still single?”

“He’s literally never _not_ ,” her partner deadpans. “He’s a good time guy, from what I hear. Darcy deserves better.”

“I’m not interested,” Darcy interjects. “ _Nat_ , I—“

The two spies continue on as if she hadn’t spoken, though. “Hold on,” Clint picks back up again, raising his empty hand to signal for them to back up a second. “He’s older than me. Didn’t you just say _I_ was too old for her?”

“You’re an overgrown child,” his soulmate dismisses easily. “This is a _man_. There’s a different standard.” She hums again, taps her fingers against the back of her chair. “I could see it.”

The archer scoffs, appearing mildly offended. “Darcy deserves better,” he reiterates.

“ _Darcy_ can speak for _herself_ , and she’s _not interested_!” the woman in question interjects once more, this time seeming to finally get through to her two friends. “ _Seriously_ , guys. Can we hold off on the matchmaking? _Please_?”

A click of the tongue, and the former assassin turns away, a bit petulant but apparently persuaded.

Her partner, evidently on Darcy’s side after all, seizes the opportunity to steer the conversation back on track. “D’you know why he was even there tonight?”

The redhead rolls a shoulder, unperturbed. “The Director doesn’t always like to give us a heads up when our ops are going to overlap.”

“You’d think it’s common courtesy to drop a hint when you’ve got two separate STRIKE teams in the same building and at least one of them is undercover, but hey,” the archer grouses as he tosses the bowtie aside and moves on to stiffly removing his cufflinks.

Nat turns her back to him, focuses on typing something out on the computer in front of her. “Maybe Alpha knew,” she offers over her shoulder a moment later. “Rumlow didn’t approach you, after all. Maybe he was warned not to blow your cover.”

There’s some indistinct muttering under Clint’s breath that sounds suspiciously bitter, but all Darcy can pick up are the words _Alpha_ , _Delta_ , and _Fucking_.

Darcy’s too distracted to even make a joke in response, despite the prime set up. She’s got more important things to focus on than whatever internal bureaucratic politics of an iPod-stealing government organization are currently bothering the fuck out of Clint. Like her soulmate, and how she’s going to find him, and how she’s going to find a goddamn spare second in this conversation to bring that up to her two superspy friends.

She almost thinks she’s got an opening right then, but Natasha tacks on an afterthought just before she gets the chance to speak: “Speaking of the Director…” There’s a pause for elaborate typing, and then the redhead is leaning back again, looking over her shoulder. “Fury needs me in DC in three hours.”

 _That_ stops the grumbling, at least temporarily. Clint looks up, right hand still fumbling with the cufflink on his left wrist. “Oh yeah? He need me, too?”

The Russian’s reply is particularly arch. “I’m a big girl, I can handle a couple of missions without you.” She flashes a quick half-smile in her soulmate’s direction despite the tease. “Besides, you need to make the meet with our guy bright and early tomorrow, so I assume you’ll be strategizing all night, and it sounds like I’ll have Rogers on my six for this, anyways.”

The archer focuses in once again. “Yeah? That means you’ll probably have STRIKE Alpha with you guys. Ask Rumlow if Fury gave him a heads up we’d be overlapping.”

With a twist of her lips, Natasha leans back even further, twirls a stylus between her fingers. “You going to be madder if he didn’t warn either of us, or if he warned Alpha but _not_ us?” she wonders aloud.

Her partner simply jabs a finger in her direction. “Ask him.”

She doesn’t even pretend to consider it, simply rolls a shoulder in dismissal. “It’s need to know, Barton.”

Clint sends a droll look in Darcy’s direction. “Never was good at that,” he admits without so much as a hint of contrition. Turning back to his partner, he announces to the room: “Well _I’m_ going to ask him the next time I see him. Fucking bullshit secrets, man!”

Were she in a normal state of mind, Darcy would probably ask her friend why he’s so hung up on this, since the frustration he’s expressing seems a bit deeper than this one op would warrant. But Darcy is _not_ in a normal state of mind. She’s understandably preoccupied, and has been waiting for her friends to leave enough of a gap in the conversation for her to fill them in on what happened while they’d both been out of earshot.

It occurs to her that this is finally just the lull she’s been waiting for, but then the reality of what had just been said catches up with her. Nat’s been called in for a mission in DC, and Clint’s going to be up all night prepping for the big meeting tomorrow morning.

 _Fuck_.

Even Darcy realizes this soulmate crisis of hers doesn’t _actually_ count as a true emergency, not like an unexpected SHIELDS summon does, and certainly not like a make-it-or-break-it meeting where you’re taking down an internationally wanted criminal and securing stolen weapons of mass destruction. She’s been waiting her entire life for this moment, of course, so it _feels_ like it’s make-it-or-break-it to her… but then again, she’s _been waiting her whole life_ , so it’s not going to kill her to wait a few more days.

Her soulmate didn’t seem angry or upset, at least. He was… understanding? Well, she supposes he’d have to be, if _those_ are the words he’s had written somewhere on him for all these years. And – _gods!_ – she feels bad about him having to live with those words! But he’ll understand when she gets the chance to track him down and explain. Sexy Understanding Soulmate Dude has to understand, right?

They can laugh about it later. Preferably while naked cuddling on whatever surface is nearest when they meet up.

There’s a small, _small_ part of her that worries this is it, that now that she’s met her soulmate and _told him she was already married – Christ! –_ she won’t be able to track him down and tell him the truth, but Darcy shoves that fear aside, stuffs it in a tiny room in the corner of her mind, forces the door shut, locks it, and throws away the key.

She’s got the Black Widow on her side. Nat can find anyone, she’s sure of this. She just needs to be patient, let her friend save the world or whatever it is she’s been called away for, first. Superhero duties, then friendship duties. That’s the proper order.

Clint’s voice pulls Darcy out of her thoughts, brings her back to the present. “Rings,” he prompts, this time holding his palm out toward her and wiggling his fingers pointedly in a decent imitation of her earlier motion.

“Oh, right!” Snapping back to attention, she looks down at her hands, realizes with a bit of a jolt that she’s somehow still clutching the serviette her soulmate gave her. She’s not sure how she didn't notice it before, but apparently she’d unconsciously clung to it, through their brief conversation with the target and through the power-walk back to the van.

She’s apparently not the only one to belatedly notice the minor theft. “You steal that towel for a reason?” the archer teases, brow arched.

And she’s not entirely sure what to say in response to _that_ question, not entirely sure how to explain why she doesn’t want to just toss it away _now_ , but Natasha saves her from having to come up with something. “She spilled wine on her dress, you idiot. You really do see better from a distance, don’t you?”

“ _Hey_ —!” the other spy is quick to object, but Darcy cuts him off, suddenly feeling terrible for not having mentioned the damage to the expensive gown earlier.

“Nat, I’m so sorry! I—” she starts to say, only to be waved off immediately by the other woman.

“The dress is yours to keep, _Milaya_ , and Clint can bring it to my guy for you. He’ll take care of it.”

Darcy blinks. “You have a guy for dress-related emergencies?”

The elegant woman arches an eyebrow, seems almost surprised by the question. “Of course.”

And who is she kidding? That’s only to be expected, really. And it’s good to know, helps solve one of her problems, at least. The dress isn’t what really matters to Darcy, though, and neither are the rings. She’s quick to shuffle the serviette from one hand to the other as she pulls the rings from her fingers, gives them one last, wistful look, and hands them over. Then, that having been dealt with, she refocuses her attention on the far more valuable thing she’d been given that night – the key to finding the _most valuable_ thing in the world to her.

She gives her head a little shake, looks up at the redhead. “Hey, I need that favor, as soon as your other thing is handled?”

There’s a curious edge to Natasha’s gaze as she turns to look at Darcy, those plotty and calculating super spy wheels in her mind already turning, but the redhead only nods in response, keeps her thoughts to herself. “Of course. I’ll drop in on you as soon as I’m back. …Or, you can tell me what it is now and I can multitask, if you’d like?”

It’s a tempting offer, and Darcy has to bite her lip to stop herself from jumping on it – because what if Nat _does_ have time and it only takes all of ten seconds for the super spy to do her super spy hacking thing and track down all of the relevant details about this soulmate of hers? …But, of course, what if she _doesn’t_ , and this just adds _another_ unnecessary burden to Natasha’s already over-full plate, or, _worse_ , distracts her from whatever important mission she’ll be on?

 _Not an emergency_ , Darcy reminds herself.

She gives her head a shake, tries for nonchalant. “As soon as you're back is fine.”

Sexy Understanding Soulmate Guy can wait a couple of days.

That’ll give her time to, like, get a wax and buy some more sexy underwear, anyways. Make sure she’s got a matching bra and panty set. …Buy a metric shit-ton of condoms.

She has things to do.

A couple of days is fine.

\--x--

Darcy tries to do some super sleuthing of her own, once Clint drops her off back at the tower and heads back out to do whatever prep work he has to do for his morning meeting with Big Bad Terrorist Guy.

You can’t reverse image search from a picture imprinted in your brain, though, so Darcy’s stuck googling some of the minor celebrities and businessmen who had also been in attendance at the fancy mission party. She’d been introduced that night to a number of old white men she’d never heard of before, so the list of names Darcy actually remembers is pretty slim, but she does a deep dive into every one she can recall.

She scrolls through news stories and images, hoping her mystery man might appear in the background of some photograph if he’s friends or acquaintances with one of these other guys who were in attendance. It also occurs to her that he might work at one of the same organizations as these Men Whose Names She Knows, so she also does a pretty thorough search of employee pages and photos on the “our team” pages of company websites or LinkedIn connection lists.

She finds nothing, but there’s an Antonio Giordano on the board of one of the companies she’s identified who doesn’t have a profile picture, and for a brief moment, she considers that a possible lead. Sexy Understanding Soulmate Guy looked like he could’ve been Italian. She could see him as a Tony Giordano. And, bonus: it’s a pharmaceutical company, so that’s doctor-adjacent, which fits her earlier theory of her soulmate potentially working in the medical field. Tony Giordano could be a match.

But Tony Giordano has an essentially nonexistent social media presence, and that just feels… _off_ , somehow. She might’ve only gotten to share a quick moment with him, but Darcy’s a hot-blooded woman in her twenties. She looked. She _saw_. Her soulmate was _cut_ , and dudes that in-shape just _have_ to have at least one gym selfie out there, somewhere. It’s practically a law of nature. Why put that much effort into your appearance if you’re never going to flaunt it? Heaven knows Darcy hasn’t had a single Really Fucking Excellent Hair Day™ where she hasn’t documented that shit and shared it with the world.

Her soulmate has gym selfies somewhere, she’s sure of it. Jane also agrees, because of course Jane is awake when Darcy returns to the tower and of course Darcy fills her in on absolutely everything and asks for help in her cyber-stalking quest. Two votes for soulmate gym selfies. It’s unanimous.

Tony Giordano, though… He either doesn’t have gym selfies, or he’s using an alias on all of his socials for some likely suspicious reason.

It occurs to Darcy, then, that perhaps Sexy Understanding Soulmate Guy was so understanding of her mentioning a husband because he, too, was married. Like, what if he’d seen his soulwords, figured the writing was on the wall, and moved on with his life without waiting to meet her? What if _she_ was the one who was going to have to be Sexy Understanding Soulmate Babe?

She doesn’t know if she can do that, if she can _be_ that. The very thought sends a sharp pang from her chest down to her fingers, but she reminds herself that there’s no reason to jump to conclusions. Nat will be back soon, do her thing, and then Darcy will have all the answers she needs. No use stressing about it unnecessarily.

She continues searching with Jane, and this time they scroll through all of the local gym and fitness hashtags on insta that they can think of.

It’s a fun process.

Darcy briefly considers making a career change to super sleuthing.

\--x--

Captain America gets arrested.

There’s apparently video footage of the moment he’s apprehended airing on basically every news channel, but Darcy’s new school. She gets a news alert on her StarkPhone, reads the entire thing three times, thinking it’s some kind of mistake.

But no, the pop-up notification hadn’t been clickbait, after all. Captain America _actually_ gets arrested, then escapes miraculously or something. Natasha’s name is right there next to his, along with some other dude who Darcy does not know.

She figures that explains why Nat hasn’t gotten back to her yet. She also figures that – again – it seems like there’s a bigger emergency right now for the super spies to focus on than helping her find Sexy Understanding Soulmate Guy.

He’ll understand if it takes a little bit longer for her to track him down. He’s probably also staring at the headlines, wondering what in the ever-loving hell is going on in the world.

Because, really: _Steve_? Decorated World War II veteran and Literal National Treasure, Steve? _Captain America_ is a wanted fugitive? Like, a wanted fugitive _from the United States government_?

…Yeah, Darcy figures her soulmate troubles can take a backseat for a little bit longer.

\--x--

Shit hits the fan. Because, you know, apparently _Captain America getting arrested_ wasn’t _already_ shit hitting the fan. No, no. That’d be too easy.

SHIELD implodes.

HYDRA is apparently still a thing that exists.

Someone drops _three huge-ass helicarriers_ on Washington, D.C.

All of SHIELD’s files get dumped online.

 _Shit hits the fucking fan_ , and Darcy stops worrying about her soulmate troubles for a minute, is too focused on the blaring alarms going off in Stark Tower and the Defcon 2 lockdown Tony initiates on them after it becomes clear that some of those leaked SHIELD files reveal that Jane’s research makes them both kidnapping targets for HYDRA.

It’s only maybe six hours into said lockdown when JARVIS announces that the Black Widow has arrived on the premises. Darcy leaves Jane to _Science!_ on her own for a bit, immediately making her way up to the penthouse level, because she needs to see for herself that her friend is alive and well, especially when neither of the two superspies had responded to any of her “ _Holy shit, is this actually happening? Please send proof of life the second you are able!_ ” texts.

The elevator dings as it opens to the private floor, revealing a semi-assembled collection of Avengers – or whatever you call the grouping that includes Tony Stark, Lt. Col. Rhodes, Bruce Banner, Thor, and Natasha Romanoff. Darcy immediately breathes out a sigh of relief when she realizes her friend seems scuffed up but _okay_.

“Lab Minion!” Tony greets, drawing everyone’s attention her way as she makes her way toward the penthouse’s work station, where the small group is gathered around a collection of holographic photos.

There are a couple of murmured greetings (and a bellowed “Greetings, Lightning Sister!” from Thor), before the Russian wordlessly extends an arm, pulls the younger woman in for a brief but meaningful hug as a way of answering any unspoken questions. _I’m here, I’m alright,_ and _We’ve got this handled._

“Clint?” she can’t help but ask while she has the opportunity, having been just as concerned by the radio silence on the archer’s part, and aware of his noticeable absence at the moment.

“He’s fine,” the redhead confirms. “Trying to track down our friend from duPont Manor and that WMD.”

Darcy frowns, remembering the details of that night clearly enough to know that that shouldn’t be the case. “I thought everything was set up for your trap that next morning?”

The explanation she’s given leaves more questions than answers: “He never showed.”

And strange as that may be, it’s not the mystery to focus on at the moment. Darcy’s satisfied just knowing that Clint is safe, so she leaves the topic alone, turns her attention back to the wall of holographic pictures, videos, and information everyone is focused on. She tries to take it all in.

Tony and Rhodey are engaged in some kind of debate, by the sounds of it, as they gesture animatedly toward one of the displayed maps. Thor’s sitting there with his arms crossed, frowning at the information in front of him, while Bruce leans closer to Natasha for a moment and asks something about _algorithms_ and _computer sentience_ and what, if anything, she’s going to tell Congress _._

Darcy just focuses on the videos, at first, takes in the extent of the damage at the triskelion that’s being played on a short loop, and then turns to examine what appears to be an endless list of headshot photos, organized by threat level and location. It’s too much to fully absorb, and she’s not quite sure what it is, exactly, that she’s looking at, but she knows it can’t be anything _good_ , knows, deep in her soul, that this is all _very, very bad_ , when her gaze snags on a familiar face near the top of the list.

Her blood runs cold, chest constricting painfully. It takes her a second to remember to breathe, and her heartbeat is pounding in her ears when her brain finally gets the memo and she manages to suck in some air. “Wait wait wait, what’s this?”

Natasha provides a direct answer, her own gaze locked ahead as she taps a stylus against her lips: “Known HYDRA agents.”

“ _All_ of them?”

“No, just the ones we’ve identified so far. There have to be more out there, but we’ll need to—“

“No,” Darcy interrupts uncharacteristically, her voice a little louder, a little more frantic than before. “ _Everyone_ in these photos, they’re all HYDRA? You’re sure?”

The redhead turns, sets her gaze on the younger woman and takes in the unnatural pallor and slight shake in her hands. “What is it, _Milaya_?”

And she didn’t notice it before, didn’t hear the room quiet down or feel the tension rocket up, but she notices it now, suddenly feels the weight of everyone’s attention on her. She doesn’t want to say it in front of the group – doesn’t want _this_ to be the way she finally brings up what happened at that fancy party – but she knows if she asks for privacy that the team will find out a few minutes later, anyway. So she steels herself, takes in another breath and steps forward, gesturing toward the face she’d imprinted in her mind. “That’s my soulmate. I met him at that party.”

Bruce supplies a name for the face, sounding like he’s reading off the hologram: “Brock Rumlow.”

The name rings a bell, and somehow even through the fog of horror that settled over her heart and mind, Darcy’s brain supplies a memory. “That SHIELD guy you said was also there, the one that almost blew Clint’s cover?”

“STRIKE Commander,” comes the automatic correction, before Natasha muses aloud: “I’m guessing he wasn’t there on SHIELD business, after all.” There’s a pause, then, as the spy clearly thinks through a couple of alternative explanations, before her gaze refocuses in on Darcy with a newfound intensity. “This is very important, _Milaya_. I need you to tell me exactly what happened when you met. Did you speak to him? Did he know you were soulmates?”

One of the others makes a disapproving noise. “I don’t see how that matters if he’s dead. Leave the kid—“

“ _Tony_!”

Her field of vision narrows. That pressure that had been slowly suffocating her suddenly intensifies, and for a moment, Darcy is sure she can’t breathe. Not just like before when she’d forgotten to, but like she actually _can’t_ , like there’s nothing to inhale even if she wanted to. Like she’s underwater, or in a vacuum, buried alive and out of time.

 _He’s dead_.

She’s vaguely aware of several people chastising Tony and a bit of back-and-forth a few of them exchange in hushed tones. She hears Tony’s voice, soft and apologetic. She hears Natasha’s soothing tone, hears JARVIS reporting something over the intercom. She doesn’t catch a single thing that is said; her mind is too caught up on those two critical words.

 _He’s dead_.

She met her soulmate only a few short days ago, and now he’s dead.

Her soulmate is _dead_.

Her soulmate _who was HYDRA_ is dead.

There’s a flurry of motion around her, but she sees none of it – _hears_ none of it over the ringing in her ears, even when someone waves away all of the holographic photos, even when she’s led over to a couch. At one point Bruce’s face fills her vision and there’s a light that flashes in her eyes, but she barely reacts, doesn’t really process it at all. The only thing she knows is that one second, she’s staring at the image of her soulmate’s super serious workface smolder, and the next, she’s blinking back tears and finding herself staring up at Jane’s worried expression, Thor, Natasha, and the others looking on from a distance, each of them wearing matching grimaces and expressions of sorrow.

Because her soulmate is dead.

And _evil_ , apparently, but more importantly _dead_.

“Janey…” she manages to croak out, before she’s pulled into the astrophysicist’s vice-like grip, is shushed and told to close her eyes, let it all out.

She doesn’t have to be told twice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some pretty depressive thought patterns, and a vague but not actually seriously contemplated mention of suicide.

Brock Rumlow wants to kill Nick Fury.

It’s not the first time the thought crosses his mind, but he feels it deeply in his bones all the same. He’s not actually sure the last time he’s wanted something more – other than the obvious, that is, but _that_ want is a constant ache. _This_ one… He just _really_ wants to kill Nick Fury.

But _no_ , he can’t, because the son of a bitch had gone and gotten himself killed in the middle of the Uprising, leaving Brock out in the wind and setting this whole damn chain of events into action. It’s ironic, really, that the reason he even _wants_ to kill the former Director of SHIELD in the first place is the very reason he _can’t_.

It’s _idiotic_ , actually – _that’s_ what it is! – because _what the hell was that SOB thinking, anyway_? Where was the goddamn contingency plan? Shouldn’t _someone – anyone! – else_ at SHIELD have known Brock was in the fucking Marianas Trench of deep cover? Didn’t that seem like the kind of exonerating information you wanted to make sure you didn’t accidentally take with you to the grave? But _no_! No, good old Nick Fury didn’t trust a damned soul, so he never told a damned soul, either.

Or, at least, that’s the best Brock can figure, since he can’t _ask_ the man, and since he wakes up _alone_ in a hospital bed, covered in burns and in excruciating, indescribable pain.

No one comes for him.

He doesn’t give the hospital staff his real name, when they bring him out of the medically induced coma and try to get him to point to letters on a small whiteboard to spell out his name. They tell him not to speak, that he’s got damage to his lungs and vocal cords from excessive smoke inhalation, but he can spell it out for them instead, they tell him. He should spell out the names of any next of kin, family member, or soulmate he wants them to reach out to, too.

He gives them an alias, one he’s certain is uncompromised, one he’s never had to use before. It’s a distress signal, a name that should clue the right people in that he’s there and he needs help, as long as it’s run through the right systems and those systems are still being monitored. He doesn’t give them a next of kin, doesn’t even have the name of his soulmate to give them if he _were_ willing to spell it out for them (and he’s not).

All he has is the alias, and the hope that the right people are looking for him. And maybe they’re _not_ , because _no one comes for him_.

Recovery is a _bitch_ , and he’s not sure what’s worse: the stage of his healing where every nerve ending feels like they’re firing simultaneously, or the later stage, when his brain apparently wises up to the damage he’s sustained and finally settles into his new normal where everything just feels _numb_. But he can _talk_ by that point, at least, can ask that his nurse _turn off the fucking TV_ before he has to watch _another_ 24-hour news cycle of SHIELD/HYDRA coverage. He doesn’t want to watch that helicarrier crash into the Triskelion, doesn’t want to see another angle of his near demise, of the destruction of what’s left of his life.

He _really_ doesn’t want to keep seeing Nick Fury’s image shown on the TV, doesn’t want to watch footage of the funeral or the gravesite, doesn’t want to see the Black Widow’s testimony before Congress aired over and _over_ and over again. Doesn’t want to be reminded how many days have passed, doesn’t want yet another reason to lay there and stare at the horrible sterile walls wondering _how in the hell_ he’s going to get out of this mess.

Because he doesn’t know, for the record. He doesn’t have an answer. Hell, he doesn’t even know that he _will_ get out of it. For the first time in twenty-five years, Brock Rumlow isn’t sure he’ll live to see tomorrow.

It should be a sobering feeling. Some part of his conscious mind recognizes that, realizes that he should be balking at his sudden lack of, well, _life security_. A bigger part of him just doesn’t give a fuck.

What’s the point, anyways?

He’s got several broken bones, a partially-collapsed lung, irreversible nerve damage, an _entire fucking body_ of charred skin, and, _oh yeah_ , a soulmate who’s half his age and _married_. That somehow hits him harder, now – either because of the near-death experience or because one look at a little make-up mirror he’d managed to convince one of his nurses to lend him makes it incredibly, _impossibly_ clear to him that he’s not going to have a normal dating life ever again. He’s not sure which thing is making it worse, doesn’t _care_ , really, because it makes no difference at the end of the day.

He doesn’t have any life security, and he sure as hell doesn’t have any _job security_.

He doesn’t have anything to look forward to other than his regular check-ins from the nursing staff, his daily PT appointments, and the twice-weekly psychiatric sessions he’s told he has no choice but to attend.

No one’s coming for him except doctors and nurses and _more_ doctors and nurses.

\--x--

Darcy handles losing her soulmate about as well as can be expected, which is to say she doesn’t handle it well at all. But, hey, a few weeks in, she’s still standing and has somehow managed to avoid missing a beat running the labs. She continues to make sure Jane and Tony and Bruce all slept, are fed, and take breaks at semi-appropriate intervals. She occasionally fails to do the same, herself, but for the most part she remembers, and she considers that to be a success, all things considered.

Bruce insists she should be taking time off, keeps reminding her of the extensive vacation time and other benefits that are provided to all employees of Stark Industries, but she _can’t_ – she _can’t_ just sit in her apartment all day by herself. Honestly, half the reason she’s able to get up and shower and be a functioning human being every day is because she knows she has to get _Jane_ up and get _her_ showered, because the astrophysicist undoubtedly fell asleep while working late in the lab once again. …Jane and Bruce and Tony are like her emotional support humans. She takes care of them so she remembers to take care of herself. Also: Jane gives good hugs and is probably twice as comforting as a pet would be, anyway.

Tony hires a world-class therapist and says he’s putting the woman on retainer because the Avengers need someone in-house they can talk to when shit goes south. It’s probably true, so Darcy doesn’t protest the decision, but she knows the real reason the doctor’s there. She meets with her anyways, because mental health is important and she probably had enough reasons to see a shrink even _before_ the whole soulmate thing: _Dark elves_ and _Giant MurderBots_ and _being completely normal but surrounded by literal superheroes_ and _all of her friends working jobs where they could die literally any time they leave_ … She’s got a lot she wants to talk about. The doctor keeps circling back to the _one_ thing she _doesn’t_ want to talk about.

Not to say Darcy _doesn’t_ want to spend time thinking about her soulmate. On the contrary, she spends _too much_ time thinking about him, about their whole disastrous meeting, about the tragedy of what could have been. She catches herself speculating, playing the _if only_ game, _wondering_ … And she knows she shouldn’t, knows she should focus on the things she can still control, maybe leave the past in the past, so she doesn’t _want_ to talk about it with the therapist, doesn’t want to hear _yet another_ thing she’s doing wrong, doesn’t want to waste sympathy time and energy she’s not actually sure she deserves, anyway.

She hadn’t even known her soulmate. She’d literally met him once – for _three seconds_ – and here she was, carrying on like a grieving widow, holding on to a stupid red-wine-stained stolen serviette she can’t bring herself to throw out, because it’s the only thing she has of him. And _yeah_ , he was apparently her soulmate, but it still feels somehow _wrong_ for her to be this upset about it, to have _this_ much trouble just moving on and getting over it... There were people who lost their soulmates every day, people who had spent years and _years_ and years getting to know their other half, _falling in love_ with them.

Darcy didn’t _love_ Brock Rumlow. Darcy hadn’t even _known_ Brock Rumlow. So she feels like some kind of imposter when she grieves for him, like she doesn’t have the _right_ to lament his death, because _how can you grieve someone you never even knew_? How can she sit there, knowing there are _actual_ widows walking around, doing a better job of getting on with their lives, when she can’t stop thinking about him? It doesn’t seem _right_.

Her therapist tells her that that train of thought is utter bullshit. Or, well, her therapist expresses a similar sentiment in far more professional words, of course, but still. She’s apparently allowed to mourn the loss of what could have been, allowed to grieve for the dreams and hopes and expectations she’d have to give up on. Darcy’s not the first one to feel as she does, the woman reminds her. And the doctor’s _right_ , of course – she’s a good doctor! – but Darcy can know that in her mind, and still have it be another thing entirely to actually feel it in her bones, to believe in her heart that it’s true.

She feels bad that she can’t just accept the doctor’s words as Truth, but she also doesn’t want to _lie_ and pretend that she _can_. So she avoids talking about it, tries to steer their sessions toward safer waters. Tries to avoid talking about him.

In her spare time, it’s another thing entirely. She spends far more time than is probably healthy sorting through the files Nat leaked during the uprising. She finds _his_ file, reads everything she can get her hands on, tries to understand where it all went wrong for them, tries to _hate_ him or feel _anything at all_ other than _heartbreak_ and _loss_ at the very thought of him, but she fails miserably on all counts.

She learns he had a normal enough childhood, sees his commendations from his time in the Navy, reads about how he’d been one of the best damn STRIKE Commanders SHIELD had ever seen. He’s got no skeletons in the closet that she can find – no unpaid parking tickets, not one speeding ticket, not a _single_ _fucking thing_ more damning than an offhand HR note about him needing to be more careful with workplace fraternization, after one female colleague apparently didn’t take too kindly to being given the brush-off after a consensual one night stand. And that’s not even _bad_ , as far as Darcy’s concerned, because she’s pretty sure she’s got at least one of those notes in _her_ file, too… unless Pepper kept those private scoldings about _appropriate workplace language and conversation topics_ a secret, that is.

Her search always turns up absolutely nothing. No matter how many times she looks, no matter how carefully she reads through _everything_ Nat released into the wilds of the internet, she can’t find a damn thing that explains where it all went wrong. It seems like he’d been a normal, upstanding guy. A bit of a flirt, maybe, but _decent_ , at his core. …Except, of course, for the fact that he’d secretly been a HYDRA mole all along. She wonders if maybe they wiped his record clean somewhere along the way, if his higher ups in HYDRA needed him to look squeaky clean so he didn’t trip any red flags.

She wonders, more importantly, if maybe _she’s_ the reason it went wrong, if maybe it was _her words_ that sent him down the wrong path. He’d been a good son, from the looks of it, and an even better Sailor and then SEAL. Had reading her words on his skin later in life, believing that his soulmate had abandoned him before she’d even given him the chance to say hello… Had _that_ been what sent him into HYDRA’s waiting arms?

Or had he always been the kind of man who was going to choose HYDRA, and did that make him _well intentioned but confused_ , or was he actually an evil guy? Steve reluctantly tells her Rumlow tried to kill him several times over, that he’d thought the STRIKE Commander was a good man until the Uprising. Darcy doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know what that says about _her_. If he was truly a bad guy, if that was the way he was always meant to be… then what does that say about _her_ , for fate to have decided that _she’s_ his other half?

Neither side of the coin is a win, as far as she can tell. She either sent her soulmate to the dark side, or was the gods-approved _perfect match_ of a guy capable of turning on his friends and allies and trying to kill them for no good reason.

Darcy carries those fears with her, smiles and nods along like she actually agrees when both the therapist and Jane tell her that she _can’t_ put that on herself, can’t take responsibility for the decisions other people make, can’t judge her own worth or moral character by what she sees in someone else. And on some level, she hears them – she _does_! – but on the other hand, she also knows that there are plenty of things she could’ve done differently. She didn’t have to tell him she was married. She could’ve just as easily not said a damned thing, just waited until after their target was gone to say a word to him, could've turned to Clint and asked _him_ if he’d met her new friend, let them shake hands, get Clint to be the one to ask his name. …There’s a lot she could’ve done differently. There are a lot of choices _she_ made that led them to where they ended up.

So, she has to figure out how to live with the _what if_ s and the lingering doubt, because getting over it any time soon doesn’t really seem to be in the cards for her. In the mean time, she figures faking it until she’s making it is the only option, so she fakes it like the best of them.

She fools absolutely no one.

\--x--

It doesn’t take all that long for the good doctors at MedStar Washington to realize that their _miraculous_ _survival_ case is turning into a _miraculous healing_ case, and _maybe that’s a thing they ought to report to someone_.

It’s only been a few weeks, and apparently it’s unheard of for someone with Brock’s extent of injuries to be making as much progress as he’s been making in PT, to have third and fourth degree burns healing as quickly as his have been. …He’s still scarred – _everywhere_ – but he’s healing, at least, and he guesses he’s got HYDRA and their Captain-America-wannabe serum to thank for that.

He guesses he’s _also_ got HYDRA to thank for the _eight_ different armed guards that show up outside his door, because apparently _burn victim_ , _accelerated healing_ , and _Washington,_ _D.C._ finally end up ringing some important government bells. …It’s not exactly the alarm he was _trying_ to trigger, but he’s not surprised, either. He doesn’t do anything but sigh when the guards storm in and station themselves inside and outside of his room.

Someone must ID him, because the hospital staff start referring to him as _Mr. Rumlow_. “Commander,” he corrects half-heartedly, at least the first few times the error is made, but either no one pays attention to him, or they actually _mean_ to slight him by failing to use his title. He suspects the latter, because even his favorite nurse starts giving him an unusually wide berth, won’t take her eyes off of him for _a_ _second_ when she’s in the room with him.

Apparently when you’re outed as HYDRA-in-SHIELD and awaiting charges of treason, you don’t get to claim any honorific you earned during your time in the organization.

But _fuck that_. He’d earned a rank in the Navy, too, hadn’t he? He couldn’t have been HYDRA _then_.

He overhears those guards of his talking about _Secretary Ross_ and _The Raft_ , and fuck that, too. Fuck everything about this whole fucking disaster.

Fuck Nick Fury, fuck HYDRA, fuck SHIELD, fuck Captain America for dropping a goddamn building on his face, and fuck the whole US government, while he’s at it.

Fuck _everyone_.

He never should’ve joined the military. He should’ve listened to his mother, stayed at home, got a normal job, married a nice, Italian woman... He’d’ve been bored out of his mind, sure, but he’d’ve had _something_ – probably a house, a couple of kids, a dog. He’d’ve had a _life_. He’d’ve had someone to come for him if he ended up in the hospital for weeks on end.

But he doesn’t have any of those things. Instead, he’s got irreversible nerve damage, a face that will terrify small children, eight armed guards, and probably a 50/50 chance of either being executed outright, or spending the rest of his serum-enhanced days locked away on The Raft.

…Or, at least, that’s what he has on _Tuesday_ , but on _Wednesday_ , he has _seven_ armed guards, one _un_ armed _accomplice_ , a Glock, and a fully-thought-out escape plan.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on at first, when one of his guards hands him the weapon. He thinks for a second she might be taking pity on him, trying to offer him a very different kind of _out_ , but then she tosses him the keys, too, tells him he’s got three minutes to make his exit, that someone will meet him at the rendezvous location programmed into the GPS of the waiting car.

He’s got _no_ idea who that someone might be, no idea what organization they belong to, no idea what their motivation for helping him might be, but he figures he doesn’t have much of an alternative, either way.

It takes him half the allotted time to slip out of the building unnoticed.

\--x--

The safe house he’s meant to rendezvous at is empty when he gets there.

He almost doesn’t show up, almost takes the opportunity to disappear into the night while he still has the chance, but in the end, his nagging paranoia gets to him. It’s not a matter of simple curiosity; he doesn’t have the luxury of _that_. No, he _needs_ to know who helped arrange his escape, needs to know who thinks they’re pulling the strings, needs to know _what they want with him_.

He doesn’t know what to expect, isn’t sure whether he should be on the lookout for someone he knows – someone from SHIELD or from HYDRA – or someone who’s completely unknown to him. It could be someone from his time in the Navy, too, he figures, but whoever helped get him out of government custody has to have some weight to throw around, some power behind-the-scenes. It feels more like SHIELD or HYDRA to him.

He’s not sure which option is better, really, isn’t sure whether he should anticipate a friendly greeting or a violent attack from _either_ of the two organizations. Either group could want to use him, but either group could just as easily want him dead – SHIELD for being HYDRA the whole time, HYDRA for really being SHIELD all along…

It’s not a good position that he’s in, not really safe from _either_ organization, but he figures it’s always better to at least know your enemy, know who’s gunning for you. So he goes to the rendezvous point, sits in the safe house, and waits. Or, well, _thoroughly searches_ the safe house for additional weapons or clues, finds nothing, _then_ waits, in the hallway off the main room, Glock at his side with the safety off.

Brock stands there for maybe twenty minutes before he hears the front door click open, hears the quiet rustling of tactical gear as a single person makes their way inside unannounced. The footsteps are light, quiet enough to suggest a woman, undoubtedly formally trained, if the cautious, stealthy entrance is anything to go by.

He keeps himself tight to the wall, keeps his breathing even, counts to twenty. And then he _moves_ , swinging himself out around the corner and immediately aiming the pistol at the center of the woman’s exposed forehead. It takes him less than half a second to confirm that was the right move, to note that the padding on her torso suggests the possibility of a bulletproof vest. It takes him another two and a half seconds to stop mentally calculating the threat level (that’s _definitely_ tactical gear, she’s got a pistol of her own leveled at his chest, and she’d only appeared ever so slightly startled but not seriously caught off guard by his sudden appearance), and _only then_ does his brain _finally_ catch up and provide him with an easy identification: Maria Hill.

He lets out a breath, nearly sags in relief at the sight of her, because if Fury’s right hand woman is _here_ , if she helped get him out of the hospital and away from the other guards, then she’s _gotta_ know, right? _Someone’s_ gotta know he’s been undercover this whole time!

But there’s a lingering fear, there, deep in the back of his mind, because he doesn’t _know_ that she knows. She’s certainly never acknowledged it, and the two of them have _never_ particularly gotten along, at least on a personal level. (Their personalities are too different, too likely to clash, and she didn’t seem to approve much of his sense of humor or his general reputation for not being a complete stick in the mud outside of work… not to mention he might’ve been a _bit_ of a dick when they’d first been introduced and he’d immediately tried to hit on her…). But they’d always _worked_ _together_ just fine, had never had any issues coordinating efforts and responses together…

He doesn’t actually know what she really thinks of him. The only thing he knows for certain is that she sent Sam fucking Wilson after him in the Triskelion, that she _for some reason_ interfered with his attempt to move on Pierce when the opportunity presented itself. But had she sent Wilson after him because she hadn’t had another way of warning him that the plan had changed? Had she simply been trying to delay him or warn him that he needed to keep his cover? Or had she not known he was _under_ cover in the first place?

And – _damn it!_ – does she think he didn’t _know_ that she was in that STRIKE riot suit? Does she think he didn’t _make sure_ she got put in the back of the van that just so happened to be transporting Cap, Romanoff, and Wilson, instead of in one of the other vans in their outfit? Does she think he didn’t _very intentionally_ put only _one_ other guard in there with them – the absolute _least_ he could assign without raising suspicion?

She either knows he’s a triple agent, or she thinks he’s an idiot.

 _Cap_ and _Romanoff_ think he’s an idiot, apparently, because they somehow thought he didn’t clock them standing _right fucking there_ on the escalator in front of him. Even after all of the missions they’ve gone on together, after he’s proven time and time again how thorough he is on the job, how keen his sight is when it comes to spotting traps or hidden dangers… Fuck the both of them! He fucking _told_ Rogers it wasn’t personal!

So who the fuck knows if Hill realizes he’s on her side or thinks he’s just a fucking moron? _Who knows_ if she’s here to help him or here to hurt him? The gun she’s keeping trained on him doesn’t give him any clue, but then again, he suspects the pistol in his hand isn’t helping matters.

He takes a breath, drops his arms, and lets the weapon fall back to his side. He doesn’t want to shoot her. He’s shot enough people for a lifetime, already. And, at this point… he doesn’t even care if _she’s_ going to shoot _him_.

“I’m _tired_ , Hill,” he reveals to her, still not certain if he’s speaking to an enemy or an ally. But he huffs out a quiet, humorless little self-deprecating laugh, nonetheless, shakes his head in resigned acceptance of whatever it is fate has in store for him. The gun feels heavy where it hangs in his hand, but dropping it could set it off, could set _her_ off, so he keeps hold of it, reiterates: “I’m _old_ and I’m _real_ fucking tired.”

The always-serious brunette levels him with an assessing look, pistol steady and aimed right at the center of his chest for another long minute. But then she adjusts her grip, relaxes her posture, and, ever so slowly, she lowers her weapon, too. “You’re not that old, Rumlow,” she calls back, a wry edge to her tone as she holsters the pistol.

And _thank fucking God,_ someone _knows_! The realization zaps the tension out of him, shoulders relaxing as he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He takes a step to the side, extends an arm so that he can set his own weapon down on a nearby end table. It’s a particularly vulnerable move – completely disarming himself that way instead of just tucking the gun away between his back and the waist of his trousers – but he’s about to do something even _more_ vulnerable, so it feels appropriate. And he _really doesn’t want the thing in his hand_.

He looks up at the former Deputy Director – (and does that make her the current Acting Director? He’s seen the news coverage claiming SHIELD’s been disbanded, but he knows better than to suspect that’s the whole truth of the matter…) – then admits: “I’d like to come in, now.”

And she doesn’t appear surprised by the request, but then again, he’s never actually seen Maria Hill surprised by _anything_. The other SHIELD Commander has always been singularly unflappable – part of the reason he could never _quite_ figure out if Dear Old Nick had ever actually told her anything about him – and so when she only looks back at him for a long moment, he doesn’t know what to expect. He certainly doesn’t expect her to incline her head just a fraction and advise him, “Maybe you should talk to the Boss about that.”

She takes a small cube out of her pocket, holds it in the air as if that’s a perfectly valid explanation of _what the fuck she’s talking about_. And he’s seen those little cubes before, knows they can store a number of things – data, files, recorded audio or video messages – knows they can _also_ serve as holographic communication devices.

“You gotta be fucking _kidding me_ ,” he grouses half under his breath, even as he follows Hill deeper into the living room, watches with a resigned sort of curiosity as she sets the cube down on the center of the coffee table, steps back just in time for a large holographic projection to fill the air above the table.

Nick Fury, in the holographic flesh, appears in the room, and the way he turns first to Maria and then to Brock tells him he’s looking at a live projection, _not_ a recorded message.

Brock’s jaw clicks shut as resentment festers within him, crosses his arms in front of his chest as he fixes a cold, hard stare in his apparently-not-dead Boss’s direction. “Looking awfully _lively_ , there, _Director_.”

The taller man – even in holographic form – gives him a once-over. “Could say the same ‘bout you, Commander. I’m glad you made it through.”

He doesn’t return the pleasantry, just stares back at the man who got him into this whole mess, who apparently survived but still left him _stranded_ in a _hospital_ for _weeks_. He’s not feeling particularly _glad_ his boss made it through. He’s not feeling much other than _anger_ , these days.

When it becomes clear he’s not going to say anything else without prompting, Fury continues, blunt as ever: “You look like shit, though.”

Brock flashes a dark smile in the other man’s direction, keeps his arms crossed and refuses to rise to the bait. “I’ve done everything you asked,” he states instead, tone matter-of-fact but with an edge of barely-contained rage lurking just beneath his words. He’s not sure _what_ the former – still? – Head of SHIELD has planned for him, but he’s not interested, so he takes the opportunity to his desires clear, no room for misinterpretation: “I’d like you to bring me in, now, Director.”

Nick Fury tilts his head to the side just a fraction, gives him another one of those once-overs. “See, _I_ thought you might like to punch some terrorists in the face.”

“I’ve done _everything you asked me to do_ ,” Brock grinds out again, choosing to repeat rather than rephrase, because he thinks his words are _pretty damn clear_ as they are. “I had a fucking _building_ dropped on my fucking _face_. I’d _like to come in now_ , Fury.”

There’s a moment of silent consideration, then a single question: “Did running from your problems ever help, Son?”

And that hits uncomfortably close to home, very nearly knocks the breath out of him with its unexpected accuracy. Brock remembers each and every time he’s tried to run from a problem, remembers that antsy, skin-crawling sensation that just wouldn’t ever go away, no matter how far he ran, no matter how hard he pushed his body… No, running hadn’t ever help… but: “It sure as hell didn’t _hurt_.”

The larger man makes a noise of dismissal, doesn’t seem to take the hint. Instead, he stares his burned subordinate down then reiterates: “I don’t think you want to come in. I think you want a purpose. I can give you one of those, Rumlow.”

He flashes another dangerous grin, drawls out in a falsely-sweet way, “You know, that punching people in the face thing’s starting to sound real nice. …You wanna send over your coordinates? Pencil in a time to meet up?”

A huff of a laugh answers him, and the Director – Brock’s officially decided it’s still _Director_ , even if the title isn’t official – seems to ignore the threat, focuses instead on making his case. “I need good men, Rumlow. _Now_ more than ever. SHIELD’s been torn down to the goddamn studs. We’ve got our pants around our ankles, and the bad guys aren’t going to wait for us to pull them back up and regroup, you know. You want to make sure the world stays a safe for your family, for your _soulmate_ …?”

His heart stills, cold awareness pricking over his skin despite the damaged nerves that rarely let him feel anything else. And Brock Rumlow doesn’t take being threatened well, not when it matters – over the years, he’s laughed off the ones that didn’t have any actual bite behind them, but he’d also killed two of his colleagues in HYDRA _long_ before the uprising, when they’d overplayed their hands and left him with no other choice – and he takes _this_ particular threat especially poorly, because _this is_ _Fury_ , and _they’d had a goddamn_ _deal_.

“What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?” he bites out, bitterness churning with betrayal inside of him. “Is SHIELD threatening innocent people, now, huh? You sure you’re really all that different from—“

“ _Settle down_!” the Director interrupts, his own tone suddenly cold and harsh. “Now I’m going to stop you right there, before you say something you’re going to regret. I wasn’t threatening you, Rumlow.” And the little bark of unamused laughter he lets out must clue the other man in to his disbelief, because Fury continues: “Hill’s been keeping an ear to the ground, monitoring for any threats after the Uprising.” – Brock turns his attention on the woman in question, relaxes his guard just a fraction when she gives a single, professional nod of her head. – “Your family’s safe. Your _soulmate_ is safe. But you’re talking as if you don’t have a reason to fight anymore. I’m just trying to remind you there are still people who count on us to make the world a safer place.”

And maybe he jumped the gun – Brock can recognize that now – because what the other man is saying _makes_ _sense_. It makes a hell of a lot more sense than suddenly trying to strong arm him after all of these years of working together, at least. _Manipulative_ , Fury’s certainly always been, but ultimatums involving innocent lives would’ve been a departure from the norm.

Maybe it’s the weeks of sitting alone in that goddamn hospital bed, or a combination of the steroids and whatever else they put in that medical cocktail the nurses have been all but shoving down his throat… Maybe it’s the fact that he’d all but come to terms with the fact that he might be going down in history as a high-ranking member of HYDRA and a traitor to the country, that he might be spending the rest of his days staring at a wall, locked away in a cell on the Raft… That is, if they didn’t execute him first… Or maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t checked up on his family in _months_ , the fact that he’s _met_ that soulmate of his, now, can no longer trust that she’s safe, that she _has_ to be because she hasn’t yet said his words… He doesn’t know which of those things is tipping the scale for him, but whatever it is, he feels more on edge than he’s ever felt on a mission, more on edge than he’d felt even in the days leading up to the Uprising.

He takes in a shaky breath, raises a hand to drag through his hair and scrub down his face, clenches his other hand in a fist, pinches shut his eyes, and grimaces as he tries to get his head on straight. Hill and Fury, mercifully, give him the moment he needs, don’t comment or exchange any stupid looks over his head. They just give him time, and in the silence, his mind replays the conversation, snags on one crucially important detail.

He lets his hand fall back to his side, looks back up at the holograph. “You know who she is?”

Fury confirms the suspicion with a simple _“I do.”_ A moment passes, then he offers just a little bit more, seeming to realize the other man won’t want all the gory details, but still needs something more as proof: “Name’s Darcy Lewis.”

 _Lewis_ , huh? He wonders if that’s her maiden or her married name. He very pointedly doesn’t ask. There’s only one question that’s any of his business, as far as he’s concerned, and Fury already answered it. He finds he needs the added confirmation, though, so he verifies: “She’s safe?”

A deliberate nod is all the answer he gets.

And that’s not _quite_ good enough for him, so he pushes again: “You’re fuckin’ _sure_?”

“Thor considers her his… _lightning sister_ , I believe he calls it. Romanoff’s all but adopted her, too. She’s protected, Rumlow.”

And that’s _not_ _at all_ what he’s expecting to hear, so Brock has to blink, take another second to make sure he hadn’t heard that wrong, make sure that whole statement wasn’t just some sarcastic way of saying _what the fuck do you want me to say?_. “Thor?” he questions. It sounds implausible, but now he’s got flashes of a vague recollection from the recesses of his mind, a half-formed memory of Romanoff saying _something_ about Thor’s sister. It takes a minute for him to connect the dots. “Wait. _Taser Girl_?”

Nick Fury arches a single eyebrow in response, asks, dryly, “You actually surprised your other half would be bold enough to tase the God of Thunder?”

And if that isn’t just the icing on the cake!

His soulmate, who’s half his age, _married_ , and _drop-dead fucking gorgeous_ , is apparently _also_ the woman who tased Thor. He would’ve liked her, he realizes, if things had been different, and they’d actually had a _chance_. No… he would’ve _loved_ her. And he feels the loss of that opportunity acutely, has to actually fight off the urge to press a palm into his chest.

He aims for a sardonic smile, lands somewhere between _bitter_ and _sullen_ , instead. And he tells himself he won’t ask another question, but he can’t help it, _needs_ to know: “And the husband? He’s a good man?”

Fury just stares back at him for a long moment, then tells him, “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Hill’s eyes cut to her boss’s hologram, and Brock wonders if there’s some kind of redline, there, if there’s an agreement they’re coming dangerously close to breaking. His soulmate is apparently friends with superheroes, after all. Fury and Hill know her. Perhaps she asked that they not tell him anything about her marriage, that they protect her privacy. And that’s a fair request, he figures, but she needn’t have bothered.

He doesn’t want to know. _Can’t_ know.

“Good.” And it’s the only thing he can think to say, so he says it again. “That’s… _good_.”

Another moment passes in silence, and he feels the awkward tension of the room, isn’t really sure he wants to let himself just _think_ right now, not without a clearly defined purpose. Wandering thoughts are dangerous for him these days, so he counts the seconds as they stretch out, lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head, reminds himself his hair is _way too fucking long_ and he _really_ needs to get a cut, if he can even afford to do that with his assets most likely frozen by government assholes.

And Fury must _know_ that the silence is eating at him, must know the right strategy is not to push more than he already has, but to let the former STRIKE Commander end up pushing _himself_ , because _the man_ _says nothing_. He just stands there in silence.

Brock’s mind supplies the commentary anyway, and he figures he can practically _hear_ the thoughts the other man is trying to telegraph: _Your family and soulmate are safe._ and _You gonna help me keep them that way?_ and _What else are you going to do?_

And, finally: _You ready for that purpose, yet, Son?_

He leans his head back, looks up at the ceiling and resists for another minute… pretends for _just a goddamn second_ that he has _any_ reason to say no, _anything at all_ to hold him back.

But he doesn’t. He won’t ever, at this rate. So might as well make himself useful, right? He’s got nothing better to do, and he’s pretty sure that with a few more weeks of healing, his body will be more or less up to doing whatever needs to be done. He knows he’ll need an outlet as he gets his strength back, knows he can’t just go back to sitting in a room by himself staring at the goddamn walls.

And Brock is tired – he’s _so_ _fucking tired_! – but he blows out a breath and makes himself turn back to his boss.

“What’s the mission?”


	5. Chapter 5

Maria Hill is a professional. She has a reputation for being by-the-book, for being clear-headed in crisis and pragmatic even in the most heart-wrenching of situations. She can make the tough calls, knows that sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good, knows that _sometimes_ the right ends can justify some otherwise questionable means.

But she isn’t heartless, and though she’s always loyal to her boss, she doesn’t always agree with the calls Nick Fury makes, certainly doesn’t always agree with the _secrets_ he chooses to keep. She doesn’t approve of his handling of the HYDRA situation, doesn’t approve of how things had played out beforehand, and doesn’t approve of how things are playing out again now, right in front of her.

She doesn’t approve of how he’s handling Brock Rumlow.

She feels responsible for Rumlow’s situation, not _completely_ – because she hadn’t known and _couldn’t_ have known what would happen that day in the Triskelion, and Maria Hill knows better than to blame herself for things outside of her control – but _partially_ , on _some_ level, because she knows her actions ultimately _did_ contribute to his hospital stay. She’s seen the scars, has read his medical file. She knows what happened, at least in part, because of one choice she’d made. She’d sent Wilson after him. She’d done it for a good reason, of course, had made a game-time decision that she would probably make again ten times over, but she’d still been the one to make the call that ultimately had kept him back on that forty-first floor.

She’d never particularly _liked_ Rumlow – had always found him to be a capable enough Commander but an abrasive person outside of missions – but she felt for him now. She’d demanded answers from Fury after that conversation in the safe house. She’d waited until an appropriate time when it was just the two of them, of course, because she’s _loyal_ and she’s a _professional_ , but she’d demanded answers all the same. And she’d gotten them, had gotten the whole story, at least as far as Nick knew it.

Maria thinks she understands Brock Rumlow a little bit more, now, knows she can’t imagine what he must’ve been dealing with all these years, undercover for two decades and living with soulwords like his for even longer. She understands now why his first words to her in that safe house had been to tell her how tired he is, realizes now how true that must’ve been for a while now.

She sees that same tiredness reflected in Darcy Lewis – in the science-intern-turned-Stark-Industries-lab-manager who was once a fountain of jokes and sarcasm, full of youth and optimism, but who now, more often than not, looks _drained_ when Maria runs into her around the tower.

Maria’s _loyal_ and a _professional_ , yes, but she’s not _heartless_.

Which is why, when Natasha Romanoff approaches her in the common area a few mornings after her rendezvous in D.C., Maria chooses to toe an extremely delicate line.

She’s stirring creamer into her cup of coffee when the redhead enters with a neutral, professional expression that makes it clear the coming conversation is more than just a friendly catch up. Maria cuts a glance up at the newcomer then turns back to her drink. “Everything go according to plan?”

The agent-of-SHIELD-turned-Avenger is fresh off a mission, having returned via quinjet with her soulmate and partner only a few hours beforehand. The fact that she looks freshly showered, uninjured, and generally relaxed suggests the mission was a success and likely is _not_ the reason for the drop-in, but it’s still the polite first question to ask.

“We found Davidson before he could make good on his threat, brought him in for Ross to deal with.”

She nods, lifts the spoon, taps it on the edge of the mug to shake loose any droplets, then places it in the sink. “That’s good.”

“It is,” the Russian confirms, letting the conversation stall for a few seconds. She gets to the point of the matter a moment later: “How was _your_ trip?”

The former Deputy Director of SHIELD arches a brow as she picks up the mug and holds it between her hands for warmth. She turns so that she can lean back against the counter and actually face the other woman.

Natasha looks up at her with an expression of innocent curiosity that they both know is utter bullshit.

Maria smiles.

“I had some loose ends to tie up in the capital,” she explains. “Completely routine.” And that’s bullshit too. They both know it.

Still, the redhead nods, pretends to accept the answer, knows what the answer _really_ means. She makes the next move in their little dance: “I heard there was a disturbance in a D.C. burn unit.”

The brunette hums in acknowledgement, takes a sip of her coffee and keeps her own neutral, innocent expression in place. It isn’t hard to do, as she’s not the least bit surprised the Black Widow has already heard about the incident. There were police reports filed – all sealed as a matter of national security, of course, but the existence of the reports themselves would generate attention. “I heard that too,” she confirms, in the same tone one would use when gossiping over an only-semi-interesting news story. “They’re saying a man suspected to be HYDRA escaped from the hospital. Slipped past eight armed guards.”

She’s allowed to give that much information away; Fury knew there’d be no covering up of _that_ particular part of his little undercover operation, knew there were too many witnesses, knew Romanoff and the others would undoubtedly hear about it one way or another.

The way Natasha simply inclines her head suggests she’d suspected as much already, though perhaps hadn’t had formal confirmation. Her real question, then, is the next one she asks: “Any word on who it was?”

She takes another sip of the coffee, shakes her head regretfully. “I can’t say I’ve heard anything,” she responds, knows the spy will hear the truth of the message there.

She _can’t say_.

Romanoff nods, appears neither surprised nor disappointed by this development. She reaches for the fruit bowl, plucks an apple out of it and turns so that she’s leaning on the counter beside Hill, the both of them looking out at the common area. The impasse keeps the both of them quiet for a minute, save for the sound of the Russian taking a large bite out of the apple.

“Hey, how’s Darcy doing?” Maria asks, and it’s a normal enough question – an entirely expected one, really, given everything going on – but the timing’s off, and she knows the spy beside her will pick up on that; it’s an apparent non sequitur and the woman in question is nowhere in sight.

Natasha takes another bite of the apple, gives herself a moment to consider the question. Maria doesn’t need to look at her to know the other woman has a cool, indifferent expression in place to hide the undoubtedly already-spinning wheels of her mind. “She’s doing as well as can be expected,” comes the response, “considering she just found out a couple of months ago that her soulmate is HYDRA.”

And that’s _present tense_ that Maria hears, so she knows the message has been received. Or, at least, as much of the message as she can reasonably give away. She’s just saved the spy some time and effort, knows the woman could’ve eventually tracked down the name of the hospital patient, had she felt it was worth looking into, worth prioritizing over other leads that needed her attention. Maria’s just told her it _is_ , but she’ll have to settle with not telling the other woman _why_.

She can’t tell anyone Rumlow is undercover – can’t _completely_ jeopardize his mission, can’t _directly_ disobey Fury’s orders and betray his trust like that – but she _can_ give the Black Widow the first piece of the puzzle, can trust she’ll try to do some digging of her own, will eventually either uncover the truth of what’s going on, or, at the very least, try to safely bring in her friend’s soulmate.

Crossbones is about to start making waves, and the Avengers will be tipped off, either way. They’ll go in after him.

Maria wants them motivated to ask questions _first_ , shoot _later_ , when they do.

\-- x --

Brock Rumlow has always been a good leader. That was true in the Naval Academy, it was true in the SEALs, it was true in SHIELD, and, hell, it was true in HYDRA, too. He’d had a reputation for bringing his men home, for making the right calls under pressure, for being able to walk the fine line between being personable and friendly with his team but still being able to lay down the law when the need arose.

He wasn’t made STRIKE Commander by accident. His higher ups – both his _real_ higher ups, _and_ the HYDRA leaders who’d only _thought_ they were his higher ups – had taken notice of his abilities, had taken notice of the way he always managed to get the job done, but they’d _also_ taken notice of his leadership skills. They’d noticed he had a way with training new recruits, had a way of inspiring the men in his unit, ran a tightly-knit, cohesive team.

The agents who worked under him _liked_ him. He was a workaholic who knew how to let loose and who never turned up his nose at grabbing drinks after work with the team. He was patient with learning curves and genuine mistakes, but demanded hard work and attention to detail. He cared about his men, remembered and asked them about details in their lives, but didn’t hold back when they needed a firm talking-to, didn’t coddle them. They listened when he spoke, knew he wasn’t going to waste their time talking out his ass.

They _liked_ him. The men (and women!) who’d worked under Brock Rumlow had _always_ liked him.

The men who work under _Crossbones_ do _not_.

Or, well, that’s an exaggeration. They don’t really _dislike_ him – they actually seem to trust his decision-making and very rarely complain about the plans he lays out, and a couple of the guys are friendly enough most of the time – but it’s not the same. They don’t _like_ him.

And Brock really doesn’t give two shits about that, doesn’t _need_ or even particularly _want_ to be _liked_ – he never has, and probably wouldn’t have been able to _be_ such a good leader all those years had he been overly concerned with being _liked_ – but he’s not the best leader right now, and _that’s_ something that gets to him.

Sometimes.

Other times it doesn’t, and that’s part of the problem.

“You sure you don’t want to come out with us, Boss?” It’s a genuine question, not one of those questions someone asks when they feel socially obligated to extend an offer; Brock can _see_ the confusion in Janssen’s eyes, knows the kid isn’t just trying to be polite… but he _also_ sees the furtive glance one of the newbies sends at the blond man’s back.

“Nah,” he declines, waives a hand in dismissal. “I’m getting old, gonna turn in early. You kids have fun.”

And that’s as close as he can manage to the old Brock, as best a wry smile as he can pull off, but it seems to be _just_ good enough. Janssen nods, still looks a bit perplexed, but doesn’t ask again. He turns to the others, signals with his hand for them to get moving, and leads them out of the hotel lobby.

Brock lets the smile drop from his face and turns around, is more surprised than he should be to see a familiar face looking back at him. He doesn’t let it show, pretends he hadn’t just dropped his guard, hadn’t just failed to realize he wasn’t alone. “You got something to say, Matthews?”

The other man’s eyes cut to the lobby entrance and back, but he shakes his head. “Just don’t feel much like spending hours in a crowded Colombian nightclub, myself. Figured I’d stay back.”

He parts his lips, lets out a quiet _“ah,”_ even though he doesn’t buy the explanation for a second. He lifts a hand to scratch at the stubble on his jaw, looks the mercenary up and down, then huffs out a breath. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your quiet evening.”

And Matthews knows that his bluff is being called, has to wince, offer a sheepish smile in apology. “Wait! You fancy a drink, Boss?”

And _no_ , he _doesn’t_ – or rather, he _does_ fancy a drink but _doesn’t_ fancy this beating around the bush bullshit – so he just crosses his arms in front of him, raises the one good brow he’s got left, and fixes an unamused stare in his subordinate’s direction.

“I’m worried about The Kid,” Matthews reluctantly admits, apparently not thrilled to be having this conversation without drinks.

Neither is Brock, for that matter. “Oh _Christ_ ,” he grouses, changes his mind and starts off down the hallway that leads to his room without bothering to give an explanation. The other man falls into step beside him without hesitation or complaint, and Brock sends a glance his way, confirms: “The _Kid_?” They’ve got maybe five young guys all the same age on this job with him, but there’s only one _Kid_.

A single nod is all the answer he gets, at least until they make it to the room. Brock swipes in, reluctantly lets the other man enter, and makes his way to straight to the dresser to snatch up the bottle of whiskey and pour out two glasses.

He hands over the lighter of the pours, takes a deep swig from the remaining glass, then gestures for the other man to continue. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s more what he’s _said_. I heard him talking to one of the rentals. HYDRA came up.”

Brock drops his head, blinks his eyes closed, swears. “I told him to leave that shit at the door.” Sighing, he looks back up, brings the glass with him so he can take another deep sip. “I’ll talk to him. _Again_.”

Matthews nods, takes a sip of his own drink, but doesn’t look completely appeased.

Brock forces a not-entirely-friendly smile, _really_ hates having to drag this shit of his men. “…Is there more?”

The other man hesitates, sets the glass down half-finished. “Jeffreys doesn’t like you.”

And that shit’s actually funny, so he lets out a laugh, takes another sip. “Yeah? Well I don’t like that S.O.B., either.”

“I don’t think we should use him on the next job.”

The former STRIKE Commander pauses, glass halfway to his lips again, and squints at the man. There’s _doesn’t like_ and then there’s _is a liability on an op_ , and those are two _very_ different things. He lowers his arm, sobers up a bit. “How many are compromised?”

The answer is good news, at least: “Just him, though I don’t _love_ our current rentals.”

“They’re _rentals_.” And that’s all that needs to be said on _that_ matter. The Jeffreys one, though… He downs the rest of his glass, moves to pour himself another. “…You know why?” he inquires, assumes he won’t need to clarify any further.

Matthews follows along just fine, levels his boss with a significant look. He informs him, dryly: “Turns out he doesn’t like Nazis.”

Brock shoots him a glare, does _not_ need to have _this_ fucking conversation _again_. “Do we have a problem, Matthews?” he asks, the warning clear in his dry, sardonic tone. “’Cuz I’m starting to think _you_ don’t like me, and that hurts my feelings.”

He watches the other man’s expression carefully, now, notes the way the man doesn’t flinch away from his stare, notes how his posture remains loose – he radiates _unhappiness_ and _disapproval_ , sure, but not _loathing_ , not even so much as an elevated state of alertness.

He knows the man’s answer before he speaks.

“No, Man. We’re good. I know you don’t give a shit about the color of my skin.”

“You sure?” he checks, rather unkindly. “Because this is the fourth fucking time you’ve brought it up. _Yeah_ , I used to be HYDRA, but you’re mixing up your authoritarians and your white supremacists. I don’t give a shit that you’re Black, you’re right – _none_ of the guys I served with would’ve given a fucking shit, either, for the record, and that _includes_ that fucking Kid – so _why the fuck are we talking about this_? SHIELD, HYDRA… I don’t fucking _care_ anymore! I just want to make some money. Sorta thought that’s why you were here, too.”

“You know why I’m here.”

And _yeah_ , he _does_. Matthews is here because he’s actually a decent guy, and Brock hasn’t found all that many decent guys who want to sign onto his little international crime spree. You just can’t find good-hearted criminals and mercenaries these days.

Matthews, though – he’s a former Ranger, honorably discharged but ineligible for any additional tours. The guy has PTSD, which is fairly well managed these days, but wasn’t so well managed for a year or so, there, and the military won’t take him back. He’s got a soulmate back home… and a sick kid. He’s willing to work with Brock because he needs the money, but he’s _here_ because Brock actually _likes him_.

Most of the time, anyway.

He knocks back another swig of whiskey, sends the disgruntled father an exasperated look. “What do you want from me, Man?”

Matthews shakes his head, heaves out a tired sigh of his own. “Just… handle The Kid, would you?”

The former Commander sweeps his arms out in front of him, palm and whiskey glass raised in a gesture of incredulity. “I said I’ll fucking talk to him!”

“…You sure he’s worth it?”

“No,” Brock answers easily, brings his arms back to his sides. “I’m not sure _any_ of you are.” – He levels his subordinate with a significant look of his own. – “But I _think_ he is, yeah. He’s got a good head, and an _excellent_ fucking shot. Give him a chance.”

The former Ranger still looks unconvinced, but at this point, Brock doesn’t know what more he can say. The two actually have a great deal in common – Matthews and Janssen do – not that they _ever_ actually talk enough to notice. Janssen was HYDRA, _yeah_ , but he’s a good kid, one who joined the wrong organization for the right – _mistaken_ – reasons. He was never a True Believer, despite what Matthews and the others might think. Brock knows him, thinks there’s a chance for redemption, there. Janssen was one of _his_ – one of the Rookies who’d _just_ made the cut for STRIKE training, who HYDRA had only just recently brought into the fold.

 _Brock_ had been the one to bring him in.

“I’ll talk to him,” he repeats, “but I need you to give him a chance.”

Matthews blows out a breath, stares back at him for a long moment. “It’s picking up these HYDRA strays that’s costing you Jeffreys,” he informs him, undoubtedly feeling obligated to say his piece, even though his defeated body language telegraphs that he’s already given in.

“I like the Kid,” comes Brock’s easy dismissal. “I don’t like Jeffreys.”

 _That_ gets a laugh out of the former Ranger, as the man shakes his head and concedes the argument: “Alright, Man. Whatever. You’re the boss.” And if there’s one thing Brock appreciates most about Matthews, it’s that the man doesn’t overstay his welcome. He’s pushing up off of the wall he’d been leaning against, already making his way toward the door, when he calls over his shoulder: “Thanks for the drink!”

Brock calls back a quick – but truthful – retort: “I’d say ‘ _anytime_ ,’ but that’d be a lie.”

Matthews laughs again, pulls open the door to the hallway, then stops and sends another glance in his boss’s direction. “Rumlow?”

He takes another sip of the amber liquid in his hand, raises a brow. “Yeah?”

There’s a grin on the darker man’s face as he apparently is incapable of resisting a parting shot: “You’re kind of a dick, you know.”

Brock snorts in amusement, figures he can’t really argue with that assessment. He can, however, send it packing for the night, leave himself with some actual peace and quiet. “Man, _get out_.”

\-- x --

Darcy is sitting on the Avengers’ common room floor in front of the coffee table when Tony enters. She’s sorting through timetables, glancing between them and three separate lists of dates and times while she tries to figure out a way to make next spring’s conference schedule work for all three of the scientists she’s lab managing for, so she doesn’t immediately notice that she’s no longer alone.

She does notice, however, when the billionaire drops into a seat across from her, when he then proceeds to do _absolutely nothing_ but _stare_ at her in silence. Darcy gets stared at in silence a lot these days. It’s not a particularly fun feeling.

Looking up from the calendar in her hands, she eyes the man in front of her warily and is not at all relieved to find him looking back at her with intense scrutiny. It’s an expression she recognizes as his problem-solving face – an expression that _never_ accompanies particularly good news. And, because Darcy is fairly confident she hasn’t recently made any mistakes with his schedule or anything related to his lab, she has to assume that _she_ is the problem he’s trying to solve.

Has she been too glum, lately? Too unfocused? She strives for levity, tries to reassure him that she’s _fine_ by making the sort of joke they’d always made with each other: “If this is one of those weekly check-ins where you try to convince me to waive any HIPAA protections so that you can access Dr. Stefaniak’s records from our sessions and make sure I’m not going crazy, the answer is _no_. If this is one of the check-ins where you want access to her records because you want to know if I’ve had any dirty dreams about you… the answer is still _no_.”

The banter seems to set him at least partially at ease, for he flashes a grin, feels the need to seek further clarification: “To the existence of the dreams or to the authorization for file access?”

She winks, looks him up and down, then tells him, “ _Both_.”

“You and Pepper ruin all my fun, you know,” he asserts, adopting an air of self-sacrifice.

She rolls her eye, knows he’s got an actual reason to talk, if he went to the effort of _sitting down_. Again, she tries to keep her tone light, curious, as she asks, “What’s on your mind, Tony?”

“Maybe I just want to visit you,” the engineer returns, needing to be contradictory, as always.

Darcy decides to save some time and multitask while she calls his bluff, says nothing and looks back down at the spread of documents in front of her.

He lasts maybe twenty seconds. “Alright look, _Legally Blonde_ : there’s something—“

“I think I’m offended,” she interrupts, before pausing and looking to the ceiling. “FRIDAY, I should be offended, right?”

“Why?” the billionaire counters, cutting off any potential response from the AI. “She’s a knockout and is brilliant, only lots of people fail to see that and underestimate her.”

Darcy blinks, finds that surprisingly sweet. She’s still not sure she likes the _rest_ of the implications that go along with this new nickname, though, _definitely_ doesn’t think she wants this one to stick and become a thing that’s said in front of random Stark employees, so she takes the opportunity to try and point out plot holes while she has it: “Who am I following to Harvard like a lost puppy?”

The question doesn’t trip him up for even a second. “Tiny Science, obviously.” His gaze flickers over her, a frown forming as he reads the objection in her eyes. “No?”

She makes a high-pitched noise of uncertainty. “I just don’t know that it fits—”

“I’m sticking with it,” he informs her, before giving his wrist a dismissive flick and bulldozing on ahead. “Look, the rest of the _Scooby_ Gang doesn’t think you can handle this, but I refuse to lie to you: Your soulmate’s not dead. He survived the Triskelion, apparently, and now he’s running around stealing some very dangerous toys and selling them to the highest bidder.”

And that’s _far_ more information than Darcy can process at once – far more information than Darcy is sure she should _believe_ _without proof_ at once. She tries to temper her reaction, tries to lock each thought down into separate compartments and avoid getting prematurely excited or upset.

Her heart does a funny thing in her chest anyways.

Carefully, she sets down the calendar she’s holding, gives her full attention to the billionaire. “What did you just say?”

And Tony seems to recognize his mistake, seems to realize how insensitive and utterly _shitty_ his opening statement had just been. He blanches, lifts a hand in silent apology, backtracks: “Rumlow didn’t die in the Uprising.”

Darcy doesn’t breathe, just sits there silently, trying to listen. She has a hard time focusing on what she’s being told, though, because her heart is still doing weird things; it feels like it’s stopped beating and like it’s gone into hummingbird-level overdrive all at once. And should her chest feel as tight as it does? Is that a warning sign of a heart attack?

“He was in the Triskelion when the helicarrier crashed into it. No one saw him get out, no one heard from him afterwards. He wasn’t mentioned in _any_ of the reports from first responders on the scene… Everyone assumed he died.”

“But he _survived_?” she checks, wants it clearly spelled out and preferably formally documented with photographic evidence and official government seals. “He’s _alive_?”

“Yes: he was in a D.C. hospital for a few weeks under a false name.” And Darcy’s _really_ quite sure her heart is actually in her stomach right now, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice, continues on: “Someone apparently figured out who he was – I don’t know – and he escaped before he could be taken into custody.”

Her soulmate is _alive_.

Her soulmate _who was HYDRA_ is alive.

And – _gods_! – she doesn’t know how to feel about that, doesn’t know if it’s right to be relieved, if it should change anything at all since he’s apparently, you know, a _bad guy_ … She doesn’t know if it _will_ change anything, anyways, if he’s destined to be eventually caught and locked away for the rest of his life. …Did it make her a horrible person if she’s _happy_ to hear her soulmate is alive? Or does it make her a worse person to not be sure that she _should_ be happy?

She’s brought back from her thoughts by two fingers snapping in front of her face. “Are you with me now, _Delta Nu_? Or was everyone else right, and can you not handle this?”

It’s a genuine question, Darcy can tell, even if it’s asked in that horrifically _Tony_ way. He’s looking at her with actual concern in his expression, a tinge of actual regret, as if he’s really not sure he should have brought it up at all in the first place. But she’s _glad_ he did, doesn’t want him to change his mind and think she’s better off left in the dark. It’s a lot to handle – _obviously_! – but if her soulmate’s alive, she wants to know about it, _needs_ to know about it.

She takes a breath, lifts a hand to wipe at her eye, nods. “I’m with you – _thank you_ for bringing this to my attention! – but I want to know how long everyone’s known about this.”

He winces, lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his hand, leans back and lets it fall back to his lap with a _thud_. “A while.” And he _clearly_ knows that’s a bad answer – everything about his expression and his posture makes that clear – but still he holds up a finger, rushes to defend: “We wanted to be _sure_ before we said anything, wanted to try to track him down, figure out what was going on… And then the whole Ultron thing kind of took priority for a minute, there – pushed this to the backseat.”

 _Right_. Because that was a perfectly valid reason to not tell someone that _their soulmate was fucking alive_! No, the first explanation he’d given had been the heart of it: they didn’t think she could _handle_ it.

 _Fuck them_!

But she forces herself to reign in her anger, promises that there will be time enough for that in the future, _knows_ that erupting like a volcano right now will do absolutely nothing to help prove that she _can_ handle it.

She takes a breath, waves the explanation off, goes to summarize in the most neutral, dispassionate tone she can muster: “So my soulmate is alive, and – what did you say? – is now stealing and selling weapons of mass destruction?”

The billionaire makes a noise of slight disagreement, feels the need to correct – because _of course he does_ : – “They’re not _all_ WMDs. Lots of unknown or powerful items SHIELD lost control of during the Uprising, lots of government tech… all things we _really_ don’t want out on the street or in the wrong hands.”

Darcy only blinks at him, barely resists the urge to sigh loudly and tell him that that is _so not the point_. She tries to focus on what’s important, tries to get to the point of this whole conversation, tries to figure out why the hell he is bringing this up _now_ , because she knows he’s not mentioning it out of a sudden guilt for keeping it secret all this time. “Why are you telling me this, Tony?”

He sits up straighter, shifts back into his normal persona, picks up his train of thought from when he’d first entered the room: “We need to catch him before he steals something like _nuclear codes_ or a major biological weapon. It’d be easier if we had something to draw him out.”

And _there it is_! She’s got a full view of the chessboard, now, knows what his play is. “You want to use me as bait.”

“A _lure_ ,” comes the immediate correction.

And she doesn’t find that even the slightest bit useful. “That’s the same damn thing, Tony.”

He begs to differ: “ _Bait_ suggests we’re going to let him catch you in order to catch him. We just need to use you to get his attention, that’s all.”

Again, Darcy resists the urge to scream from the top of her lungs that _that is not the point!_ , and instead takes a deep, steadying breath. “And what makes you think you can do that, anyways?” She raises a palm of her own before he can answer, though, cuts off the immediate _you’re his soulmate_ that she knows is coming. “He doesn’t _know_ _me_ , Tony,” she emphasizes. “The _only_ thing he’s _ever_ known about me is that I’m significantly younger than him, and – as far as he knows – I’m already married because I couldn’t be bothered to wait for him. He doesn’t care about me; _at best_ you’re looking at a 25/75 chance he even bats an eye.”

“Maybe,” the billionaire allows with a tilt of his head and a _what-can-you-do?_ expression, “but you know who I hear he cares a whole hell of a lot about? Capsicle.”

This time Darcy _does_ roll her eyes. “Steve will never agree to—“

“So here’s the thing, _Woods-Comma-Elle_ : I already leaked some photos of you and Rogers looking extra cozy at the Halloween party.” He holds his hands up in the air, expression one of false apology, then continues: “ _And_ some photos of you pretending to fall asleep on the couch during last week’s movie night, just so you’d have an excuse to put your face on his abs. … _And_ a photo from your late night pizza run the other night, when you were holding onto him from the back of his motorcycle.” – He pauses, drops one hand and holds up a single finger from the other, makes a face, then points at her. – “Actually, it was _weirdly_ easy to find compromising photos of the two of you together. …Are you sure there’s nothing going on there?”

And she’s no longer in the mood for any of the man’s bullshit, so she fixes a glare on him, tells him, bluntly, “I will kill you, Tony.”

The man in question lifts a single shoulder, looks completely unconcerned by the threat. “Pep tells me there’s a line.” He lets a moment pass, then blows out a breath and fixes an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes on his face, continues: “Look, we’re gonna get this guy, alright? Bottom line.” He punctuates the statement with a clap, heaves himself forward and finally pops back up onto his feet. “The question is, you wanna help us bring him in _alive_ , or you wanna let us do our _Avenging_ thing and wait ‘n see what happens?”

And when it’s phrased like _that_ , she’s not really sure she’s got a choice.

She doesn’t want to be involved in this, doesn’t think it’s a good plan to begin with, doesn’t trust herself to play any kind of actual role in this anyways… She doesn’t want to do anything but sit and process this revelation, maybe talk to Jane for a while, _definitely_ talk to that in-house therapist again.

But none of that really matters, does it?

She doesn’t see an alternative, so sighs, lets him know how much she hates him right now: “God _damn_ it, Tony!”

He grins, snaps his fingers. “So you’re in, then?”

\-- x --

The absolute last damn thing Brock Rumlow needs is to be lectured by two different men, each at least a decade or two younger than him, neither of whom have _any idea what the fuck they’re talking about._ The worst damn part is that it’s _his fault_ the two are even talking to each other, his fault the two are ganging up together, are actually fucking _agreeing_ on something for once in their lives.

When he said he thought the two had a great deal in common, _this is not what he meant._

“We’re just saying, we’re worried about you. That’s all.”

Brock drags a hand over his face, looks over his shoulder at the two men staring back at him. “Oh, so now it’s _we_ , huh?” he gripes, before turning back to the bottle he’s holding. He pours three fingers of whiskey into a hotel room glass, holds the bottle steady while he looks up and reconsiders, then pours in another two for good measure. He takes a sip before he turns around, makes a face at the bitter taste of cheap liquor. “I’m _fine_. I’m fucking standing here, aren’t I?”

“This is the second op in a row you’ve caught a stray bullet,” Matthews tosses out there, matter-of-fact.

The former STRIKE Commander frowns in confusion. He mentally runs through their recent ops – some of which, _yeah_ , haven’t gone _great_ , but only _one_ of which he remembers taking a bullet during. He’d come close a couple of times, but… He groans as he realizes what the man is talking about, immediately raises an objection: “Oh, _come on_ , that graze last week doesn’t fucking count!”

From where he stands in the corner of the room, leaning back against the bathroom door, the youngest of the three men quietly points out: “You never used to get injured at all.”

He fixes a hard glare in Janssen’s direction, takes another sip of the amber liquid without breaking eye contact. “I used to have a fully trained outfit of men who _knew what the fuck they were doing_. Ya think that might have something to do with it?”

The darker man crosses his arms in front of his chest, nods at the glass Brock’s still sipping from. “I think _that_ might have something to do with it.”

He doesn’t much appreciate the insinuation, lets the arm holding the glass lower down to his side, makes it known: “I don’t drink before an op.”

“But you sure do drink a lot _after_ ,” Matthews counters. “The Kid tells me that’s new.”

Brock’s gaze cuts to blond, holds the look until he sees the younger man start to squirm. Darkly, he asserts: “ _The Kid_ doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Matthews sighs, _stupidly_ pushes on anyways: “You wanna talk about your words?”

And if Brock’s glare had been lethal before, it’s fucking _incendiary_ now. Janssen winces, ducks his head and suddenly takes a strong interest in the pattern on the carpet. Brock raises the glass to lips, knocks back about half of what’s left, then grimaces as he sets the drink back down with a loud _clang!_.

The Kid flinches.

It serves him fucking _right_.

But the former STRIKE Commander doesn’t do anything more, doesn’t cross the room and throw a punch, doesn’t _throw the fucking glass of liquor_ he’d just _very purposefully_ disarmed himself of, doesn’t do anything for a long moment but stare at a kid who damn well better know he’s lucky to be alive.

Brock’s words aren’t legible anymore. Matthews has seen him shirtless a number of times, it’s true, but there’s no way he could make out more than a couple of letters, not with the way all that scar tissue distorts the delicate writing. And the former Ranger knew better than to ever ask him about it – because it turns out _one_ of the men on his team isn’t a complete and utter fucking moron – but _Janssen_ …

Janssen had known Brock _before_ , had served under him in HYDRA. Most of STRIKE knew about his words; there’d been some kind of urban legend about them, Brock knew, something about how he was basically invincible, how you always wanted to fly in _his_ quinjet, ride into a mission in _his_ Humvee. Brock tried to discourage that shit, didn’t want any of his men getting cocky, starting to think that _they_ were indestructible… but he knew the stories were still out there.

The younger agents were warned not to ask him about it, to keep their goddamn mouths shut if they caught sight of the soulmark when the team was gearing up or hitting the gym together. Most of them took that warning to heart. _Some of them_ , apparently, need another reminder.

“I’m not pushing, Man,” Matthews continues after the moment of silence stretches long enough to start feeling uncomfortable. “I’m just offering. I’ve known guys with some fucked up soulmate situations. Now I don’t know if you’ve met this man or woman yet, but—“

“Matthews?” he interrupts quietly, still manages to cut the man off mid-sentence. “ _Shut up_.”

There’s a long pause, before the former Ranger finally nods, heaves a sigh. “If you ever change your mind…”

“I wont,” he asserts, before casting a brief but longing glance at the discarded whiskey. He wants that acrid taste now more than ever, but he feels like he has to make a fucking _point_ about it now, so he leaves it where it sits, removes his shirt and makes his way over to the dining chair they’d already pulled out, straddles it and crosses his arms over the back. “Let’s get this over with.”

Matthews lets out another breath, seems to suddenly reconsider the logic of their entire conversation. “C’mon, Man,” he finally enjoins. “You can have another drink first; this is going to hurt.”

And Brock’s tempted to look over his shoulder and glare at the indecisive bastard, but he stares straight ahead instead, informs the room monotonously: “I’ll be fine.”

“ _Boss_ —“

“I won’t fucking feel it, all right?” he snaps, exaggerates maybe _a bit_ , but really just doesn’t want to have to argue about this. It really _won’t_ be that bad – he knows that from experience, now – but a bigger part of him doesn’t mind, anyway; the pain is almost _welcome_ , right now. Softening his tone, he tells the other man, “Just get it out.”

He gets no verbal confirmation, but Brock hears the shuffling behind him, hears the muted clattering of items as the man sets to work preparing to dig out the bullet lodged near his shoulder. He feels pressure on his back a moment later, picks up the sharp smell of disinfectant.

A glance to his right tells him Janssen _still_ hasn’t looked up from the floor, and Brock sends a look skyward, knows that just won’t do. “ _You_ ,” he barks out, watches the kid’s gaze snap up to meet his, “get over here and watch what he does. You might actually learn something for once.”

Janssen does as he’s told, jumps forward and circles around to observe the makeshift lesson in field medicine. Matthews narrates what he’s doing, and Brock tunes them out, focuses instead on looking over the clutter of documents strewn out on the little table before him.

Brock’s room is usually tidy – usually devoid of pretty much everything except his one bag of clothing, another bag of weapons, his Crossbones gear… and _maybe_ a bottle or two of liquor – but they’d been using his room to plan the earlier op, had left out a hand-drawn map that wouldn’t mean a goddamn thing to anyone who didn’t already know the location of the heist, had left out a number of other assorted documents and items, ranging from what appeared to be a list of local take-out places they’d taken nearly a full half hour to choose from to a list of coordinates representing the last three locations their artifact had been before it had ended up in its current location. Or, well, it’s _second to last_ location, now, since it was _currently_ in a secure location, awaiting transport to their “buyer.”

He looks over the clutter, appreciates for once that his little ragtag team is undisciplined enough to not pick up after themselves; it gives him something to distract himself with, gives him something to stare at other than a blank wall. The small stack of newspaper in the corner catches his attention, and it’s a normal enough thing to find lying around – the guys often bring reading material when they know they’re going to be strategizing for a few hours and will inevitably be asked to _sit down and shut up_ while Brock and usually Matthews work out a few of the finer details – but there’s _something_ about this one in particular that stands out to him…

He reaches forward, vaguely registers a complaint from one of the men behind him, and drags the tabloid toward him, pulls it out from under the newspaper and reveals the full array of images decorating the front page.

His heart stops.

“Get out.” He barely recognizes his own voice, barely realizes he’s spoken at all as he stares down at two very familiar faces, but he manages to repeat the order, louder this time: “Get out, _now_. Both of you.”

“Boss?” It’s Janssen, Brock thinks, but he’s hardly paying attention.

“Take a week off. Your cut of the profit is already in your rooms and we’re overdue for some vacation time.”

“I haven’t finished putting the bandage on,” Matthews protests, confusion obvious. “I still need—“

“Leave it. I can do it myself,” he interrupts, and his voice still sounds strange to his own ears. He doesn’t know if the others notice – he assumes they probably _do_ , the nosy fucks that they are – but he can’t bring himself to care, can’t bring himself to do anything but get them the fuck out as quickly as possible. “We’ve got ten days until we need to be in Bukhara. I’ll send you the coordinates, and Matthews: I’ll send you the details about the local crew. But I need you both to _get out_ of my room _right fucking now_. I will not ask again.”

Both men do as they’re told, undoubtedly exchanging looks behind his back or muttering _something_ to each other in the process, but Brock doesn’t pay them any mind. He doesn’t even notice, is too busy staring at the headline in front of him.

_Captain America’s Secret Love to Attend Sokovian Holocaust Memorial Event!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this whole sequence was supposed to take up half a chapter, _max_... but the details just kept coming and coming, so I eventually had to break it off into separate chapters. You may notice I've finally removed the "out of X" part of the chapter numbers, after having pushed the total number up a couple of times. At this point I don't know how many more updates there will be, if scenes keep writing themselves like this.
> 
> Oh well. We got some accidental backstory and plot for the OCs who were supposed to play an incredibly minor role. Hopefully that wasn't boring! If it was, your consolation prize is knowing that the next chapter will have Brock and Darcy in the same room once again. (;


	6. Chapter 6

“I want it on the record that I still think this is a _terrible_ idea.”

They’re just stepping out of the hotel elevator when Darcy feels compelled to make her thoughts on the matter known, even though it’s clearly far too late for anyone to actually _do_ anything about her objection. The billionaire doesn’t miss a beat, taking a glance at the little sign identifying room numbers and swiftly swiveling to the left. He leads the way, doesn’t so much as cut a glance back in her direction.

“Oh, it’s there,” comes his dry assurance. “In black and white. In the form of a formal notice you had sent to me by certified mail.” He snaps his finger and points in the air, feigning as if he’s just realized something. “ _And_ in high definition color, actually, because FRIDAY recorded me _opening_ said certified mail.”

The brunette simply follows along and bobs her head in a satisfied nod, because this is a perfectly reasonable thing for one to do. “Just needed it documented in the likely event this plan of yours requires an emergency water landing.”

 _That’s_ enough to draw his full attention; Tony Stark comes up short and shifts to angle his body toward her, looking mildly offended by her lack of faith in his plan. Still, instead of defending his strategy or otherwise reminding her that, in the end, _she_ agreed to go along with it, he chooses to snark back: “Well fear not, _Darcy Downer_ – I’ve got your flotation devices right here.”

He reaches into a suit pocket, pulls out a tiny plastic bag, then opens it and pointedly waits for her to hold out her hand. As soon as she does, he’s tilting the thing and pouring out two small, silver pieces of metal into her palm. Darcy frowns down at them in confusion.

“Earring backs,” he offers by way of explanation, “and GPS tracking devices. They can also serve as a distress signal; if you need help, pinch one between two fingers – and I don’t mean just _touch_ it, but actually apply significant, sustained pressure with two fingers – and it’ll alert the team.”

 _Huh_. She gives the things another once-over, is surprised to find that they do, indeed, look like perfectly normal, if slightly larger-than-average, screw-in earring backs. “Well that’s sorta neat.” Simple, unassuming, and not likely to be removed in a hostage situation. …Or, at least, she _assumes_ they’re not likely to be removed in a hostage situation. No one in the movies is ever told to take out their earrings, right?

“Put them in.”

And Tony’s lucky that Darcy’s had a lot of experience rushing to get ready on the go, so she’s able to go ahead and swap out her old earring backs for these fancy gadget ones right there in the hallway, no mirror needed. She gestures for the empty baggie, slips her old ones into it, then pockets them.

The billionaire taps his glasses, asks aloud, “We got ‘em?” then presumably gets some sort of visual answer from his onboard AI, because he nods a second later, confirms: “Got ‘em.” He turns to Happy next – the Head of Security had been silently shadowing the two of them and doing a cursory sweep of the hallway – and holds out his palm, wiggling his fingers when his silent instruction isn’t immediately completed.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Darcy recognizes that that’s the kind of annoying thing she’s guilty of doing, too, but she very quickly shuts that thought down. She’s not interested in self-reflection and personal growth at the moment. She’s _far_ more interested in whatever it is that Happy is handing to Tony, and Tony is now handing to _her_.

“Is that…?”

“A brand new, one-of-a-kind electroshock weapon designed by yours truly? Why yes, yes it is,” he preens, before immediately running through the specs: “Wireless projectiles, so you don’t have to reload between uses, a range of fifty feet – which is better than the current best on the market – a twelve round clip, and, of course, back up drive stun capability for close range combat. Oh! And a thigh holster, naturally. You’re welcome.”

Darcy blinks, takes the customized weapon from him gingerly, looks down at it in awe and then turns that same expression back up at him. “You made me a tricked out new Taser?”

“No. A Taser is a branded, trademarked, _specific_ version of an electroshock weapon. That’d be like if I designed a whole new line of cars and you asked me if I made you a _Dodge_.”

She takes a breath, blinks again. “Not really the point. I _mean_ , you designed and created this… _for_ _me_?”

He frowns at her, seems to think the answer should be obvious. “Of course.”

She blinks one more time, tries to stay focused on the incredibly awesome gift she’s just been given and not risk a single second thinking about the individual she’s supposed to potentially be using it _on_ … if he even shows up tonight. And Darcy’s always been one to rely on jokes as a distraction or coping mechanism, so she offers a resolute nod, then tells him, completely seriously: “I accept your proposal and will give you my hand in marriage.”

Tony flashes a grin and winks down at her. After a thorough once-over that lingers just a little bit longer in certain areas, he declares, wistfully, “It’ll still be worth it when you take half of my money and leave me for a younger man.”

“Or woman,” comes her automatic correction.

He concedes immediately, looking positively delighted by the suggestion. “Or woman.”

 _Or older man_ , her traitorous brain suggests, before she does the mental math, thinks about birthdays, and realizes that _technically_ her soulmate is actually just a few months _younger_ than Tony. Not that it matters, of course, because she’s very much _not_ running off and doing the internationally wanted fugitive lifestyle with this soulmate of hers. She’s already decided.

…After, admittedly, considering it for longer than she probably should have.

She’d run through the pros and cons of all of her options, all right? It’s only natural she considered the possibility of going on the run with him. The pros list included avoiding student loan debt, seeing more of the world, and getting to actually live a life with her supposed other half. The cons list involved not being able to upload selfies or other photos of their travels to instagram, probably having way too hectic of a life to ever have a dog or a _Ficus_ , let alone kids, and, you know… _HYDRA_. Not to mention leaving Jane behind.

She’s not going to run away with him.

…She’s not sure she really wants to help _catch_ him, though, either.

It feels like a betrayal, somehow, but then again, refusing to help – leaving him to be caught by the Avengers _alone_ , not helping make sure he’s at least brought in _safely_ … – _that_ feels like a betrayal, too. Running away with him isn’t an option, but neither is letting him continue selling weapons and dangerous artifacts to terrorists, and neither, still, is turning her back on him.

So: that leaves this insane plan of Tony’s. Joy of joys.

“…Does this mean you’ve forgiven me, then?” the man in question asks, drawing her back to the present.

Darcy eyes the fancy gift, appreciates it, but tells him, “No.” Because she hasn’t; this isn’t a _say sorry and bring me flowers_ kind of offense that he and the others have committed. “You should’ve told me _as soon as_ you suspected he was alive. I deserved to know. You get credit for being the one who actually _did_ tell me, Tony, but that’s not enough. You want to make it up to me? Bring him in alive _and_ unharmed.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen, Darcy,” he promises, the rare use of her first name a complement to the genuine sincerity she sees reflected in his eyes. He holds her gaze for a long moment, before softening his expression even further. “Hey. Everything’s going to be fine, Kid. We’ve got the better half of the team here. It’ll work out.”

And Darcy didn’t quite share Tony’s confidence on the matter, but even she had to admit that they _did_ have a good team present – hopefully good enough to get the job done without anyone getting hurt. Thor was off-world on some End Of The World Fever Dream quest, while Steve and Sam were off on their Not Dead Best Friend quest, but they had Clint, Nat, Wanda, _and_ Vision with them, so she really couldn’t complain.

They could do this.

Hopefully.

… _Maybe_.

She nods anyway, adjusts her grip on the not-Taser and the accompanying holster, then tries to ready herself for seeing her soulmate once again. Because that’s, you know, a thing one can definitely ready oneself for.

“It’ll be fine,” he reiterates. “You’ll have _Little Witch_ by your side the whole time, and we’ve got _all_ the bases covered. You want me to run through the plan again?” – He pauses, waits for her to shake her head. – “No? Okay then, let’s get you dressed and out there to rock and roll.”

Without further ado, the billionaire pivots and goes back to leading the way, taking off down the hallway and hanging a left at the fork. She trails after him, followed closely by Happy, until the Trio make it to the suite she’s sharing with Wanda. Tony swipes a key, pushes the door open, then stops and turns back to her.

“Wait. Honest opinion: considering this whole… _situation_ …” – He waves a hand at the left side of his face, where the bruising of a two-day old black eye is still visible beneath fading concealer. – “How do I look?”

Darcy stares back at him, doesn’t know how to answer that other than by telling him the blunt truth: “Like you got punched in the face.” One doesn’t get punched in the face by Captain America – (the Certified Puncher of Hitler™ apparently hadn’t taken very kindly to Tony’s plan, especially when photos of him were used without permission) – and walk away looking like it never happened.

“Fucking Rogers!” the billionaire grouses, before heaving a long-suffering sigh and waving an arm at the door. “You go get dressed. I’ll leave Happy out here to wait for you while I go run and see if I can do anything about this. Back in five, then we’ll get this show on the road.”

He doesn’t wait for any acknowledgment before heading off and leaving Darcy and Happy behind to exchange a look. Neither of them suspected he’d be able to _actually_ hide the bruising.

“Do you want to wait inside?” Darcy offers, because the suite is ridiculously large and has a nice little sitting area in the front room that seems _much_ more comfortable than just standing outside in the hallway would be.

But Tony’s Head of Security merely lifts a hand, shakes his head politely. “No, no, I’m good out here. Thank you, though, Miss Lewis.”

She shrugs, figures it’s his decision even if it _is_ a weird one, and makes her way into the suite, allowing Happy to close the door behind her, since he was already moving to do just that. The suite is ridiculously luxurious – something she still wasn’t used to, after spending so long bouncing around practically homeless with Jane – but when he’d first seen the accommodations, Tony had apologized for it not being ‘up to standards.’ Wanda tells her it’s the nicest hotel in Sokovia, but apparently Tony isn’t used to less than the best the West can offer.

…Which is also undoubtedly why Darcy now owns _another_ multi-thousand dollar dress, which Tony had somehow had custom made for her in only a couple of days’ time. Without her knowledge, too, for the record; Darcy hadn’t so much as stood for a fitting, otherwise she almost certainly would’ve objected to the extravagance and insisted on either a much cheaper dress, or just re-wearing the black gown Natasha had gifted her on that last mission. …Come to think of it, the super spy was almost certainly involved in the creation of _this_ gown, as well, because it was just as well-fitting and just as flattering in all the right places as the last one. Not to mention, the redhead had been going out of her way to try and get on Darcy’s good side again, after being caught keeping the Secret of All Secrets from her.

Darcy doesn’t have to forgive her friends (or even be fully on board with this whole crazy plan, for that matter) in order to admit that she _does_ actually like the dress; it’s the one thing about this night she’s even kind of looking forward to.

She moves through the suite toward the bedroom where she knows the gown is hanging in a protective garment bag, sets aside her new electroshock weapon on one of the dressers she passes on the way.

She’s halfway to the closet when someone grabs her from behind.

Cold steel grips her heart. Adrenaline floods her system. She tries to pull away, finds herself slammed back against a muscular chest. An attempted twist and duck fails miserably, and she resorts to clawing at the gloved hand that covers her mouth, tries to kick out her legs, aims for the corner of the bed that’s only a couple of feet in front of her now. She figures if she can get a good enough push off of it, she might be able to knock her assailant off balance, might be able to bring them both to the ground, might be able to use the chaos to escape from their clutches. Her Taser-not-Taser is only a few yards behind her, and if she can just get her hands on it…

She lands a foot on the corner of the bed frame, but it’s an awkward angle and her leg is just slightly too extended by the time she makes contact. The push-off she manages is weak, earns her nothing more than a masculine grunt for her efforts.

Her captor twists with her, brings her out of range of any remaining furniture, so when she kicks out again, she gets nothing but air. She locks eyes on the Taser, tries to rip the hand off her mouth, tries to throw her other elbow back against the man’s side, but his grip is unrelenting. The arm around her waist tightens, and the hand locked over her mouth muffles her cry for help. She’s too focused on trying to get out of his grip, forgets for a second that she should be reaching instead for those fancy earring backs Tony had given her only a moment before.

“Easy, there, Sweetheart. _Easy_!” a low, gravelly voice implores from just above her ear, his words somehow managing to break through the haze of her panic. She can feel the man’s face pressed against the top of her head, can feel the steady breaths he takes as his chest expands and contracts against her back, but the hand he keeps on her mouth makes it impossible for her to move, impossible to even turn her head. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never do that. You’re safe, you’re safe… Easy, now.”

And she recognizes the voice, she realizes now, as he continues to coax her into relaxing. She’s not sure how it is she can _possibly_ recognize his voice, but she _does_ , and maybe it’s that simple fact on its own, or maybe it’s her own guilt, indecision, and internal misgivings taking over and leaving no room for fear and panic… but whatever it is, she finds herself relaxing against him, just a little bit – enough that she’s no longer trying to rip his hand from his mouth or throw her body weight side to side, at least.

“That’s it,” he cajoles, his own grip on her loosening up a fraction when he senses she’s no longer struggling. He keeps his hand over her mouth, though, keeps it impossible for her to turn and look at him, even as he leans his cheek a bit heavier against the top of her head. “That’s good, Sweetheart. Just like that that. Deep breath, now. You’re safe.”

Is she, though?

She’s got an opportunity to reach for those panic-button earrings, now, and she finally remembers that that’s a thing she definitely might want to do right about now… but she finds herself still unable to move – not physically, this time, but mentally or emotionally…

He’s her _soulmate_ , and HYDRA-asshole-turned-internationally-wanted-mercenary or not, he’s _here_ and he’s whispering reassuring words in her ear, and she finds herself helpless to do anything but stand there, letting him somehow manage to calm her down.

Her Stark-made panic buttons aren’t going anywhere, she rationalizes; she can reach for them at the first sign of danger.

“I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth now, alright? But you’re not gonna scream, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you, Sweetheart. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, no reason to scream. I just wanna talk. Understand?”

And that’s what every bad guy in the history of _ever_ says right before he proceeds to very much do more than _just talk_ , but she actually sort of believes him, finds herself nodding as best she can, which makes for more of a slight bobble than anything else. He seems to understand what she means, though, and ever so slowly he eases his hand away from her mouth. His arm lowers a few inches only to tighten up once again, forming a vice grip around her shoulders and keeping her locked back against his chest. She shifts her hands so that they rest on his arm, now, one near his wrist of his long-sleeved shirt, and the other hanging about halfway down by his elbow. She’s long since stopped actively pulling on him.

“There ya go, there ya go…” he croons into her ear, evidently still concerned he might spook her into renewing her fight if he speaks too loudly or moves too fast. “You’re okay. …Ya know who I am?”

She breathes out the answer without hesitation, knows it on some deep and instinctual level: “Brock Rumlow.”

“That’s good, Sweetheart. Real good. Quick thinking. You’re pretty smart, huh?” And that feels dangerously close to patronizing, so Darcy starts to yank away from him, tries to kick a heel back into his shin, but he negates her actions far to easily – dodges her foot and locks her back against him even tighter. “Okay, _okay_! I’m sorry,” he rushes to apologize, seems to connect the dots and figure out what it was that set her off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, for the record, but I’m sorry.”

“Stop coddling me,” she grinds out, jaw clenched and fingers digging into his arm.

The noise he makes sounds dangerously like a chuckle, but he seems _pretty smart_ himself, knows to stifle it as much as he can. “Okay,” he acquiesces, “alright.”

It takes him a second to speak up again, undoubtedly having to resist the urge to continue on with his ridiculous soothing tactics, but Darcy gives him time, doesn’t know where she’d even want to begin, anyway. She still isn’t sure if she should be reaching for her ears right now or asking him what went wrong, if it was somehow _her_ fault he fell into HYDRA’s open arms.

“What’re you doing here, Darcy?” he finally asks her, tone still low and gravelly, but with a markedly sharper edge than had been present before. When she doesn’t immediately flinch back from him, it seems to embolden him a bit. He leans into her more, asks what he’s really wondering: “What the fuck does Stark think he’s doing? There are actual fucking bad guys after Cap, Sweetheart. Romanoff and Thor are allowing this? _Rogers_ is allowing this? This whole play is _dangerous_.”

“He’s looking for you,” she tells him, figures it’s not that big of a revelation, all things considered. He clearly knows this entire theatrical event is one of Tony’s plans, has come for her, even if he hasn’t truly fallen for the trap.

“Yeah, I fucking _got that_ ,” he returns, tone gruff but not unkind, then barks out a short, bitter laugh. “But what the fuck’s he putting _you_ in danger for?”

And she’s _not_ in danger, not _really_ , but the part of her that wants to argue the point gets edged out by the part of her that can’t resist an opportunity to be snarky. “…Do you have more than just the two settings, or is it always the Gentle Horse Whisperer or the Brooklyn Bad Ass with you?”

“I’m from the Bronx,” comes his immediate correction, but there’s warmth and humor in his voice, and she can feel the slight vibration at her back as he beats back the urge to laugh. He presses his cheek to the side of her head.

She tries to ignore it, tells him instead: “ _Brooklyn_ Bad Ass sounds better.”

He hums out a noncommittal noise. “Depends who you’re asking.”

She tilts her head, tries to turn and angle it so that she can catch a glimpse of the smile she’s certain she hears in his voice, but he stops her. The arm across her chest shifts, and he catches her jaw with his thumb, guides it back so that she’s staring straight ahead once again.

He won’t let her turn around to face him – doesn’t want to look at her, evidently.

“I’m not with Steve,” she feels compelled to tell him, senses the way he immediately stiffens at the confession. “I didn’t want you to think…”

“No, I know that, Sweetheart,” he assures her, seems to force himself to relax behind her once again. “I know that.” He heaves out a sigh, offers, conspiratorially: “Cap’s in love with his long lost buddy, in case you missed that.”

She didn't. She’s not sure how any of the historians and politicians from back in the day missed it. Same-sex soulmates were a bit stigmatized in the past, sure, but they weren’t _unheard of_. Some tried to play those pairings off as platonic, and sometimes they were, sure… but most times they weren’t. People _knew_.

Steve talks about Bucky all the time, speaks of him with a sort of longing that feels far too significant for simply a close friend. Darcy’s known since the second time they’d met, figures most of the rest of the Avengers are well aware, too, even if Steve hasn’t said anything about it out loud. Of course Brock Rumlow would know, given the likely countless missions Cap had partnered with Strike Alpha on.

Hole number two in Tony’s plan. Three, if you factored in the black eye.

From behind her, the internationally wanted fugitive adjusts his hold, eases his grip back significantly, though he seems just as ready to block her movement if she tries to turn toward him again. And it’s an oddly domestic embrace, all of the sudden – him standing against her back with an arm looped around her shoulders and another hand at her waist. It’s a striking contradiction to the question he asks next: “How’s the husband? He treatin’ you right?”

And she’s confused, now, because how is it he doesn’t know the answer to that, after all this time? How can he be _here_ , have tracked her down as perfectly as he had, have figured out her _name_ and _everything_ … and not know that she’s unmarried? It almost feels like a trap or a joke of some kind, it seems so implausible to her, but she senses a genuine discomfort in his voice, even as he tries for casual and interested.

“…I’m not married, Brock,” she tells him, then quiets again, tries to gauge his reaction.

She feels him still, feels him sputter back to life a moment later. “ _What_? What happened?”

And he must think she’s _divorced_ or _widowed_ , she realizes, so she moves to explain, tries to cover all of her bases this time: “I’ve _never_ been married; I was undercover when we met, helping Clint and Natasha—um, Barton and Romanoff… wait, that was probably already obvious, sorry. But our target was there. At the party. Clint was walking over with him, and I—I, uh…”

“You had to maintain your cover,” he finishes for her, having apparently already connected the dots in his mind. It’s silent for a moment, but then she hears him swear, hears the anger and frustration in his voice as he vents to himself under his breath. “ _Fuck_!” The explosive nature of the word has her flinching. “That _son of a fucking bitch_!”

“I’m sorry!” Darcy is quick to throw out, knows she deserves the anger, but doesn’t want him blaming Clint. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know what else—“

“No, no,” he interrupts, sounding again like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did _good_ – that was quick thinking; you got me out of there, maintained your cover. _You_ don’t need to apologize.” She feels him take a breath, feels the tension in the muscles surrounding her, even if he’s clearly trying to pretend he’s calmer than he is. “I should’ve turned around. I could’ve— But Fury _told_ me—“ He’s quiet for a second – too quiet – and then he _laughs_ , lets out a low, dark chuckle. “I’m gonna kill him,” he tells her then, tone entirely too pleasant for her to be certain he’s just _saying_ it, the way people regularly say things they don’t actually mean. He repeats it, apparently settles on the plan: “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.”

And she’s not sure who he’s talking about, worries for a second that maybe she _does_ know who he’s going to take his anger out on. “Wait! Clint didn’t—“

“Not Barton,” he assures her, drops his head down onto her shoulder, takes a breath. And then he’s lifting his head just a moment later, taking another deep inhalation. He gives his arms around her a squeeze that she’s sure is meant to be reassuring, tries to lighten the mood. There’s a teasing quality to his voice when he elaborates, a hint of dark humor thrown in with the still-very-unsettling dangerous calm: “Now, I might _maim_ Barton for letting Stark get you into this whole mess right now, but I won’t _kill_ your friend. I promise.”

It occurs to her then that he seems _awfully_ frustrated with Tony, too, so she rushes to add on: “Tony is—“

“I’m not going to kill any of your friends, Sweetheart.”

Darcy isn’t sure how to respond to that, senses this soulmate of hers is on the edge right now, worries a wrong response from her might just be the thing to tip him over. “Brock…”

But she doesn’t know what the right thing is to say. She said the exact _wrong_ thing last time.

She hesitates, then can’t help herself, can’t stop herself from asking the question that’s been plaguing her thoughts and nightmares for _months_ now: “Where’d we go wrong? Did we ever have a chance?”

He huffs out a breath – tries to hide the pain in it, she’s sure, but fails entirely – then presses his face into the side of her head, just behind her ear and just out of reach of her peripheral vision. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Maybe not.”

And she can’t really expect him to have any better of an answer than she does – she isn’t sure why she’d even bothered to ask in the first place, isn’t sure what, exactly, she’d been hoping to hear… – but the despair and exhaustion in his tone makes it _worse_ somehow, makes her own agony feel somehow twice as painful.

She blinks back tears, tries to remind herself that _it doesn’t matter_ , that, whatever the reason, they are where they are and there’s nothing left to be done about it. The only thing to do _now_ is mitigate the damage as best she can.

She takes in a breath, blows it out again when she feels him tilt his face into her head even more.

“Ships in the night, Sweetheart,” he says to her, or maybe it’s actually to himself, with his voice that quiet and full of remorse. “ _Ships_ in the _goddamn_ _night_.”

And then he’s moving again, shifting her in his grip then releasing her, only to catch her again with a hand on each upper arm. She feels his head directly behind hers, now, feels him take a step back.

He’s getting ready to leave.

She tries to turn, finds herself held firmly in place, finds his face just out of view when she tries to crane her neck. “Brock—“

“I have to go.” She feels him touch his forehead to the crown of her head, feels him give her arms a quick squeeze with each hand.

It feels like an apology.

It feels like _goodbye_.

And she doesn’t want that – doesn’t know _what_ she wants, is still barely able to wrap her head around the fact that he’s even _alive_ , let alone running around stealing dangerous items – but she knows she doesn’t want _that_.

She doesn’t want this to be goodbye. They haven’t had enough time.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she asks of him, because she doesn’t have the right to _beg_.

“Stark’ll be back soon,” he reminds her, “and there’s something I have to do.”

It’s phrased as if he plans on coming back, as if there’s just the one thing he’s got to take care of before he can, but that’s completely at odds with his tone and demeanor. He’s _savoring_ her touch, pressing his face to her hair, and that’s not something you _do_ when you’re planning on coming back. That’s something you do when you think you won’t ever have the chance again.

He called them _ships in the night_.

And he still _won’t let her turn around_ , won’t look her in the face, won’t let _her_ see _him_ …

That’s a pretty damn clear signal, all on it’s own.

He’s _not_ coming back.

But is that because he thinks he _can’t_? Is that because he knows there are bounties on his head, has to know he’s looking at spending the rest of his life in prison once the Avengers or one of several governments catch up to him? Or is it because he doesn’t _want_ to come back, …doesn’t want _her_?

She’s been so focused on trying to decide what it is she wants to do, now that she knows her soulmate is actually alive... She’s spent hours trying to figure out whether she wanted to even talk to him, even acknowledge they were soulmates, spent hours trying to decide if she should see if she can’t arrange some kind of pen pal relationship once Rumlow is arrested… trying to decide exactly how terrible it was that a small part of her might sort of be tempted to go on the run with him…

She forgot to consider the possibility that _he_ might not want to hear from _her_.

She’d worried about that after they’d first met, had briefly been concerned that he might not forgive her for saying she was married, might even be married _himself_ , but when she thought he died… and then when she realized he _hadn’t_ … It completely slipped her mind.

He isn’t married. She knows every aspect of his life – or, the non-classified parts, at least. She’s read his file front to back more times than she can count. And she remembers Nat briefly considering setting them up – incredibly _ironic_ , now, in hindsight. He isn’t married, but that doesn’t mean he _wants_ to be, doesn’t mean he has any interest in her at all, doesn’t mean he even _wants_ a soulmate, let alone one twenty-six years younger than him.

_Soulmates don’t always work out._

She’s asked him to stay once already; she doesn’t have the right to demand anything more. She’s not sure she’d want to hear his answer, anyway.

It doesn’t matter why he’s not coming back, doesn’t matter if it’s just the circumstances or if it’s her; there was never going to be a future for them, not with him either on the run smuggling weapons to terrorists or locked behind bars for the rest of his days. Their paths were set to go in separate directions a long, long time ago.

Tony _will_ be back soon – he’s _right_ – and maybe she should be trying to stall him, trying to help catch him in this trap Stark had created with one fatal design flaw. Maybe that’s the right thing to do, here… but she _can’t_.

She tries for teasing, comes up short and can’t quite hide the misery even as she asks: “Oh? Tight schedule, with all the heisting and black market auctioning?” 

The breath he lets out has her imagining a sad smile on his face as he admits, “Something like that, yeah. Gotta fit someone else in between the heists, now, too; I just realized he and I are overdue for a meeting.”

She snorts and declares it “Ominous.” She can’t think of anything more to say.

He hums noncommittally, neither confirms nor denies her assessment. “Tell Stark to stop with this nonsense,” he urges her, instead. “Cap’s a _target_ , Sweetheart, and if he would pull his head out of his ass for _one fucking second_ , he’d realize—“ He cuts himself off, sighs, then tries again: “Just get him to back down. I don’t want you getting hurt, okay? Don’t go to the memorial event today, not with all the media coverage you’ve gotten. Go _home_. Tell Stark that I won’t come the next time he tries something like this.” He sounds almost apologetic, then, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself. “I can’t let this work again, Sweetheart; I can’t let him keep putting you in danger just so he can try and capture _me_. …If he does this again, I won’t come. _Please_ take care of yourself.”

It’s a _plea_ , an imploration he clearly means with all his heart, and she’s too emotional to repeat it back to him – _can’t_ repeat it back, not when it sounds so formal and so _final_. The best she can do is a wobbly nod.

He breathes out, squeezes her arms again – a last, lingering touch – before releasing her and slipping out of the room. He’s gone by the time she turns around and wipes at her face, escaping through some open window or vent or door or _who the fuck knows?_ She knows better than to try and look for him, knows better than to call for Happy or set off the emergency signal Tony had given her.

It’s too late; he’s gone.

And it’s funny – the way minds work, the way someone can say something an in one moment you take it to mean one thing, but when you think about it later, you realize there’s a whole different option for interpretation. Sometimes it takes hours, even days to realize you might’ve missed something. Sometimes it’s not for years later that you look back and realize you might’ve been wrong.

It takes Darcy less than three minutes – just long enough for her to be sure it’s too late, sure that soulmate of hers is already long gone.

“Oh, fuck.” She drops onto the nearest surface, lets out a shaky breath, and drops her head into her hands.

Somehow, she doesn’t end up crying, just sits there in silence, letting her mind replay the conversation they’d just had, replay their first meeting, replay everything she’d heard about him in the past few months. She feels numb again, torn between anger and hope and self-loathing and anxiety and despair and regret, torn in so many directions that she can’t feel any of them.

She’s still sitting there on the edge of the hotel bed when Tony makes his grand reappearance just a few minutes later, talking a mile a minute from the second the door opened.

She lifts her head, looks straight ahead at the wall, then eventually turns to him, waits for him to pause for a response or for _air_ or _something_.

He’s running through their plan for the evening again – is insisting he’s got every element of the trap covered, that he’s absolutely _certain_ she’ll be safe and well-guarded the entire time – when he suddenly cuts himself off, stops and actually _looks_ at her, seems to finally realize she’s not in the formal gown he’d had made. “Wait. You aren’t dressed yet. Why aren’t you dressed?”

She cuts to the chase, tells him plainly: “He was here.”

The billionaire scoffs in response. “Well _of course_ he’s here. I’m a genius and my plans always work. I _told you_ it would work. That’s why we need you to… Hold on. Did you say _was_? As in, _past tense_?”

She watches him spin around, search the room with his eyes. When he finally stops and meets her gaze with his desperate, half-horrified one, she gives a slow nod of confirmation.

The reaction is immediate: “ _Fuck_!”

“I don’t think he’s HYDRA, Tony,” she tells him then, gets ready to fill him in on what she’s belatedly realized.

But Stark – _naturally_ – isn’t on the same page as her. “No, probably not,” he agrees pleasantly, before adding: “He seems like more of an equal-opportunity thug-for-hire these days.”

She shakes her head, tries to explain: “No, I think he’s _SHIELD_.” She sees the immediate objection coming, lifts a hand to cut him off. “Or _was_ or whatever, before everything. He mentioned Fury... Maybe I’m wrong. I mean, I know he’s _dead_ , but the way he said it…”

And that seems to finally get through to her friend, because Tony Stark _pales_ – a reaction that Darcy clocks _immediately_.

She turns to face him fully, stares him down now as best she can. “Tony…” she starts again, voice low. “Fury _is_ dead, isn’t he?”

A sheepish smile and an awkward little _huff_ of air answer her. “Yeah…” – He scratches at the back of his head. – “About that…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for brief discussion of suicide, including implied reference to an off-screen unnamed character’s suicide, but no real contemplation of it by characters in the story.

It doesn’t matter how many times Brock Rumlow is asked the same question – his answer doesn’t change:

He’s fine.

When the chatty taxi driver who picks him up in Bukhara asks how he’s doing, he tells the guy that he’s fine. When he rendezvous with his team, he ignores the long looks and tells _them_ he’s fine, too. The mission goes to shit – maybe because of him, maybe because of something else – and even though they don’t recover the item they were aiming for, he gets his men out and no one that matters catches a bullet, so _he’s fine_. He dismisses most of his crew, tells them he no longer needs their services, tells them their little business arrangement is done with, and, when they seem to think he’s lost his mind, that he must just be overreacting to a bad mission, he tells them that _he’s fine_ , and _yes_ , for fuck’s sake, he’s _sure_.

He _doesn’t_ dismiss Matthews or Janssen – isn’t done with his plans for them yet, and, besides, they’re the closest he’s got to teammates he actually trusts to watch his back, so he’s not quite ready to give that up just yet. Of course, trust is a double-edged sword, and Brock can more or less trust them _because_ they give some amount of a shit about him, but… _because they give some amount of a shit about him_ , they _won’t leave him the fuck alone_.

He keeps telling them he’s fine.

He tells The Kid he’s fine when he catches those furtive-but-not-actually-stealthy little glances, and he brushes Matthews aside and insists that he’s fine when the former Ranger wants to get a look at how the gunshot wound in his shoulder is healing up. And, when he drinks just a _little_ bit more than he means to and realizes the room is spinning and an awkward tilt all of the sudden, he pre-empts the question he knows is coming – stabilizes himself, pinches his eyes and calls forth every last drop of sobriety within him, while offering his two companions a placatory palm. “ _I’m fine_ ,” he tells them.

And he tells them the same damn thing when one of them needs to take the wheel at oh-dark hundred for the final leg of their long drive out of Turkey. (Ankara’s as close as they can get to Europe proper without risking giving away their expected whereabouts; SHIELD is almost certainly monitoring any documents and accounts linked to any of their cover IDs, so it’s getting to Ankara then driving under the radar from there.) Brock can handle staying up for the drive – is both sober _and_ relatively awake – so he tells them as much when he vetoes the suggestion of stopping for the night and instead takes the wheel. …He’s _less_ fine with being left to his own thoughts for hours in the silence that comes when the younger men fall asleep… but that’s what the radio is for. He’s fine.

It’s the same damn thing over and over and over again.

_How are you?_

_You okay?_

“…Boss?”

The room spins for a second, everything temporarily out of focus, and he can _swear_ the lights are brighter right now than they were a moment before. He blinks, holds an arm out in front of him when a blurry figure steps closer. He shakes his head – half a way of warning the other man off, half because he thinks the movement might clear his vision – and sure enough, with a few more blinks, the frames line up and everything is back to normal.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he insists, keeps that arm up to hold the younger man at bay.

“Rumlow—“

“I said I’m _fine_ , Matthews.” With a sideways grin, Brock pushes back off the cage, ignores the mother hen of a former Ranger and steps forward to tap a glove to the youngest man’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Boss! I didn’t—“

“ _Relax_ ,” comes his immediate dismissal. “I caught an elbow; it happens. It ever comes down to it in a fight, you _use that_ , yeah? You’ve got some force, there, Kid.” Stepping back, he flashes another grin and bounces on his feet, holds his gloved fists out in front of him. “Let’s go again.”

From the other side of the cage, Matthews makes his objection known with a groan.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ll get you to bed soon, _Princess_ , don’t you worry,” the former STRIKE Commander mocks without so much as glancing in the other man’s direction. Instead, he stays focused on The Kid, shakes out his arms then readies himself and gives a quick, decisive nod.

Janssen doesn’t fuck around, goes immediately for a power jab without any of that dancing-in-circles bullshit. And Brock’s reflexes, even half a bottle deep, are far from shabby, so he’s ready for attack, pulls back just in time. He still absorbs some of the hit, but it’s not enough.

It’s not _nearly_ enough.

He’s in that damn bathroom back at base, sitting on his bare ass in front of Jameson, and laughing so hard he’s got tears in his eyes. He doesn’t take even a _second_ to consider there might be an alternative explanation for those pretty, _torturous_ little words on his shoulder.

The next two hits to the torso are better, knock the breath out of him almost as much as that first glimpse in the mirror had.

He’s leaning against the doorway of his mother’s kitchen, shaking his head and trying to keep a pleasant enough expression on his face as she grills him about his love life, complains about his decision to re-up, keeps not-too-subtly hinting that if he’s going to stay in the military then the _least_ he can do is settle down like so many other sailors and start working on those grandkids she’s owed. He doesn’t tell her about his words, doesn’t want to hear her speech about _soulmates_ and _destiny_ and, most of all, doesn’t want her to talk him into something dangerous, like having _hope_.

He takes a heavy knee to the side – a blow that would’ve flooded him with sharp pain, if only he still had properly functioning nerve endings. It’s jarring, still – enough to snap him out of the memory.

He’s sitting across from Nick Fury, cold cup of coffee in his hand, getting the stare-down as the SHIELD Director waits for an answer. And Brock _nods_ – thinks he’s probably very clearly the obvious man for the job, can’t think of a single fucking reason to say _no_. It doesn’t even cross his mind that saying _yes_ could cost him more than fate’s already decided to take from him.

Three sharp jabs plus a hook, and he takes the hit to his shoulder in order to land one of his own.

He’s there in New Mexico – STRIKE being called in when it looks like there might be an 0-8-4 HYDRA wants confiscated – but when it becomes clear the thing’s not budging, he gets to decide which two guys in his unit will stay back with Sitwell, while everyone else gets back to working on other missions. He chooses to _go_ – has the option to _stay_ and do some additional reconnaissance, could talk to those people SHIELD flagged as being somehow involved… But he _leaves_.

An uppercut catches him by surprise, has the lights swimming again for just a moment.

He’s looking _right_ at her, cataloguing her anxious little glance over his shoulder, recognizing how absolutely _torn_ her expression is. All he has to do is turn around. She’s _right there_ , and if he only just _turns the fuck around_ , he’d know in an _instant_ what’s going on. But he doesn’t. He should _know_ something’s off about her reaction, should _trust_ that heartrending feeling inside of him that’s telling him that leaving her right now is _wrong_ … but _he doesn’t_. He just smiles sadly, touches her arm, and walks away.

The cage rattles as he’s slammed into it, as his body gets worked over with hit after hit after hit.

He’s in D.C., is given one out after _another_ after _a-fucking-nother_.

All he has to do is look up her name. He’s got the contacts, the clearance, and the resources to find someone if he really wants to… can check security cameras from the party, run the list of guest names through SHIELD’s database and see the photos from the cover IDs they’d used. _All he has to do is look_. And he _doesn’t_.

All he has to do is _listen_ , when Romanoff tries to describe her friend while they’re on the quinjet, and he _doesn’t_.

 _Nick Fury is dead_ , and all he has to do is decide he’s done enough, _go to Hill_ , once it becomes clear she’s working with Rogers. This time, all he has to do is _walk away_ … and. he. _doesn’t_.

He feels the blows in rapid succession, welcomes the clarity that comes with each hit, grunts in satisfaction when he takes a shoulder to the chest as Janssen gets into position for a takedown.

“ _Hey, hey, hey_! That’s enough, that’s enough! _Janssen_ —!”

The Kid pulls back, blinks in surprise as he steps away from his former commander and glances between the two veterans with uncertainty.

Brock stays where he is, leaning up against the cage, breath coming heavy to him. With a roll of his head to the side, he peers over at Matthews, tells him, “We’re good, we’re good. I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah?” The former Ranger makes a face that lets it be known with perfect clarity exactly what he thinks of that assurance. “Then why aren’t you protecting yourself?”

A huff, and the heavily scarred man waves a dismissive hand at the alarmed look that suddenly appears on the youngest man’s face. Turning back to the black man, he defends himself: “He’s got _gloves on_ , Matthews, and in case it somehow escaped your notice, _I’ve got nerve damage_. The Kid’s not going to hurt me.”

Matthews refuses to engage, simply stares back and asserts, firmly: “We’re done.”

It should bother him more – the blatant insubordination – but Brock was half a bottle deep when they _started_ this sparring session, and his body feels sufficiently worked over, now. He doesn’t have the energy to get worked up about things that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t all that important. “Calm the fuck down,” he orders instead of actually reprimanding his subordinate, though there’s still no real bite to the bark. He stays up against the cage a moment longer, leans his head back and blinks his eyes shut.

The peaceful moment doesn’t last long.

“Boss…?”

A low, exasperated groan slips out of him. “ _Jesus Christ_ , I’m _fine_ , Kid. I used to take all six of you at once, remember? You think I can’t still knock you out cold in fifteen seconds if I want to?” At that, he reopens his eyes, fixes a long, pointed stare in the blond man’s direction. His brow lifts in silent emphasis.

Matthews interrupts the little exchange, redirecting focus back to the present: “Go settle up with the owner, will you, Kid? I’d like to get back to my room sometime _before_ sunrise, if you don’t mind.”

And Janssen looks unsure for a second, glances between the two older men as if he expects there might be disagreement, but Brock only nods, and The Kid does as he’s told, making his way out of the cage and over to the gym’s office, where the owner is waiting for them to finish up so he can lock the place down and head home.

The former Ranger waits until the youngest of the three is out of earshot before he turns to his boss, gives the older man a slow, assessing once-over.

Brock does everything but roll his eyes, meeting the look head-on for a long moment before finally pushing himself off the cage and starting to unwrap his fists. It doesn’t take a fortuneteller to know what his man is going to say, but that doesn’t mean Brock’s going to make it any easier on him.

Matthews blows out a long breath, then starts with a simple statement: “I don’t like this, Man.”

A blink and a sideways glance, and the former STRIKE Commander feigns innocence as he lifts an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You might be in the wrong business, then. You _have_ to train if you want to stay combat ready.”

“It stopped being _training_ the second you stopped actually fighting back, and you know it,” comes the quick rebuttal.

Brock begs to differ, makes a high-pitched noise to communicate that as he moves out of the cage. Because the cage is on a slightly elevated platform, that means climbing a descending a small staircase. He lingers for a second at the bottom, turns and temporarily places his gloves on the top step in order to free up his hands. That taken care of, he crosses over to the edge of the mats where he’d stashed his wallet and the bottle of whiskey he’d been nursing before they’d all decided to come across the street and get a little sparring in.

“I’ve worked with The Kid for a few years now,” he points out as he bends and retrieves the glass, then straightens up and taking a nice, long sip. At the familiar and refreshing burn, he can’t help but heave an audible sigh in appreciation. “Believe it or not, I know what he can and can’t take. I know how he thinks, and I know what he _needs_. Sometimes, after a bad mission, a complicated lesson or a particularly challenging opponent is the absolute last damn thing you need. _Sometimes_ , you just need a good, mind-numbing workout and the chance to throw a few punches that actually land.” He lets the other _sometimes you need_ go unspoken. “We both got what we needed tonight.”

There’s a sigh, and the darker man shakes his head, doesn’t look pacified by the explanation. “I’m worried about what you think _you_ needed tonight. I’m worried about _you_. This is borderline self-destructive, and I’ve watched enough friends—“

“We’re not friends.” It’s a harsh interruption, but a necessary one. Fixing a hard stare at the younger man, he tries to communicate exactly how much he means what he’s saying right now, because it’s important Matthews doesn’t get this twisted. “We’re business associates – decently friendly ones, sure, but not _friends_. I give you leeway because I trust your judgment on missions and know you won’t contradict me when it counts, but make no mistake: I hired you for a job. I picked your ass up when you needed the money and couldn’t get another gig, and that is the extent of our relationship. You don’t see me trying to psychoanalyze your problems. Don’t fucking start with me.”

Matthews narrows his eyes, works his jar side to side before huffing out a disbelieving little scoff and shaking his head. “Alright, Man,” he says, though it’s clear he thinks it’s anything but _alright_.

And for a second, Brock thinks that that might actually be the end of it, but, _of course_ , the traits that made Matthews a good leader for his own unit – the traits that made him an attractive pick up for Brock when putting together this merry little band of mercenaries – are the same traits that won’t let him let this go, now.

“That’s how you want to play it? That’s fine. I can do tough love, too.” The former Ranger steps closer, drops his voice. “You think I don’t see you taking The Kid’s ideology apart, piece by piece, and showing him how to rebuild it? Yeah, you leave me alone, more or less, because you know I’ve got my shit handled – _more or less_. Doesn’t stop you from making sure that while planning our ops that _I’m_ never the one in a spot that might get pinned down and need back up. Doesn’t stop you from subtly mentioning our location and what we’re doing every single time you pull me out of my thoughts or wake me up. _I fucking see you, Rumlow_.”

Feeling exactly as exposed as he’s sure he’s meant to, Brock clenches a jaw, holds the other man’s gaze as he brings the glass back up to his lips and only _barely_ manages to resist the urge to snort and look away. Flinching away isn’t going to help matters, isn’t going to do anything but further confirm what they both apparently know, and he’s not about to hand over more ammunition than he already has. He takes a deep sip of the whiskey, all but _dares_ the other man to comment on it.

“So you go ahead and bullshit me all you want, Brother. But I see you, and no matter what you say, you’re. _not._ fucking. _fine_!” Matthews leans in, gambles when he assumes Brock _won’t_ lash out physically in response to the verbal dress-down. “And yeah, okay, we’re _not_ friends, but listen to me when I tell you you could use one, right about now.”

The gamble pays off. The most Brock does is glower back with an expression that promises a violence they both know would’ve already materialized if it was ever going to. Jaw still clenched tightly, he squints at the man, twists his lips back into a derisive smirk and huffs out an angry little breath. “That right?”

Lesser men would’ve paled at their commander using that kind of tone with them, but Matthews just stares right back, unmoved. “That’s fucking right,” he returns. “You don’t want to talk – I _get_ that! – but you’re gonna have to talk to _someone_ , Rumlow. Because this? This whole song and dance? It ain’t working, Man. You send The Kid and I away for ten fucking days with no explanation, and when you get back, you’ve got a busted hand and twice the fucking demons you were working with before. But do I ask you about it? No. I give you space. Look, you want to drink your life away? You want to get in the ring and spar with a broken fucking hand after you’ve already had more than a few drinks? You want to get the shit punched out of you because I’m guessing pain’s the only fucking thing you can feel these days? I can’t stop you. But you do it _somewhere else_ , or at least _with_ _someone else_. That knock-off super soldier serum you got didn’t make you invincible, Rumlow. You want to self-destruct? No one can stop you. But don’t you fucking _dare_ let that kid be the one to deal the killing blow!”

There’s a long, tense silence as the two men stare each other down, neither one wanting to back down. There’s a part of Brock that wants to keep fighting, wants to point out that the other man is being overdramatic and obviously _nothing_ about the little sparring session had been life-threatening… but he knows that’s a straw man. He knows that’s not the other man’s point. And Brock doesn’t much like when people try to _guess_ what he’s thinking, why he’s making the decisions he makes – he likes it even less when they hit uncomfortably close to home – but he sees where this is coming from… sees _Matthews_ , probably even more than Matthews claims to see _him_.

He knows what happened to the childhood friend Matthews’ served two tours with.

So it’s Brock who finally breaks the standoff, who eases up on the reins of his defensive anger and lets himself deflate. Calmer now than he was only a moment before, he offers his not-friend some reassurance: “I’m not suicidal.” He partially wishes he _was_ , honestly, but Brock was raised Catholic, and if there’s _one_ thing Catholic guilt is good for, well… “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Matthews doesn’t look fully reassured, but his demeanor softens a little bit in response. “I don’t think _you_ know what the fuck you are,” comes the barbed reply, but it’s a fair enough point, so Brock lets it slide without comment. The black man rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then heaves out a sigh and crosses his arms in front of his chest. Gentler, now, he continues: “Look, Man, I don’t know what you’re beating yourself up about… but you’re going to get yourself killed – one way or another – if you keep this up.”

Brock considers the man for another long moment, then chooses the path of least resistance, opts to try and lighten the mood. Crooking the corner of his mouth up into a small half-smile – or, at least, the closest approximation he can manage with the heavily scarred skin on his face pulling at awkward angles – he returns: “Not in front of The Kid, I’m not.”

There’s a twitch of an answering smile, and then: “Good.”

It feels like the end of the conversation, and Brock isn’t in the mood to stick around to wait and see if the other man wants to say anything _else_ , so he makes sure he’s got his wallet and the bottle, then gestures with his head toward the exit. “Strategy session tomorrow?”

Confirmation comes in the form of a nod. “I’ll figure out what’s taking The Kid so long, make sure we’re squared with the owner and don’t need to wipe anything down.”

Normally he’d help with something like that, but Brock knows his limits, and he knows he needs to walk away _now,_ before The Kid comes back and makes a _similar_ _I’m-concerned-about-you_ type statement, so he simply lifts his glass in salutation then starts toward the door.

And, because Matthews is _wrong_ and Brock can feel both pain _and_ a small amount of smug satisfaction, he can’t help but toss one more thing over his shoulder: “Aren’t you glad you gave the _HYDRA stray_ a chance?”

The taunt earns him a scoff, but there’s amusement in the younger man’s voice as he bites out a dismissive “ _yeah, yeah_ …”

Brock smiles and he pushes open the door, heads back across the street. It’s a beautiful coincidence – there being an MMA gym right across the street from the hotel they’d chosen to stop at – made all the better by the fact that the owner spoke Italian. Now, Brock would’ve probably figured it out even if that _hadn’t_ been the case, because he’d practically grown up in similar gyms, and there’s a certain language fighters shared around the world. …That _and_ Brock also had an untraceable SHIELD-issued phone with cutting-edge translation software on it. But _still_! It’s nice to talk man-to-man, and negotiating some private time in the gym after closing had been an easy thing to do once they’d switched from charades to Italian.

There’s no one in the hotel lobby when he enters – it’s close to midnight, now, and the desk isn’t staffed at all hours – so he helps himself to one of the spare towels the attendant had mentioned were stocked behind the counter. (He knows his bathroom only has one, and he’d rather have separate _post-workout_ and _post-shower_ towels.) It’s a juggle to balance the glass and the bottle in one hand as he picks up the towel, but then he’s got it tossed over his shoulder and he’s back to glass-in-one-hand-bottle-in-the-other as he heads up to his room.

He – _much more wisely_ , this time – downs the remaining liquor from the glass before doing the one-handed-juggle outside the door to his room, then re-pockets his wallet, shoulders the light-switch on the way in, and kicks the door shut behind him.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the elbow to the head earlier, or maybe he’s just _that_ out of practice, but he makes it all the way to the dresser on the other end of the room before he realizes he’s not alone.

The same unconscious instincts that alert him to that fact also manage to _recognize_ the presence, quickly classify it as a non-enemy. _Friend_ or _foe_ might still be to-be-determined, but _enemy_ is off the table, at least. Absently, it occurs to him he should probably care more about the fact that he’s been caught unprepared by someone who very well might be a foe… but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but mild embarrassment at his slip.

Blowing out a breath, he keeps his back to the stealthy woman and forces the muscles of his shoulders to relax just enough for him to pour himself another glass. The bottle _clunks_ as he sets it down on the dresser, and he takes his time, tossing his head back and draining the full glass, before setting that aside with a second little _thud_. He tosses the towel from his shoulder aside and leans forward with hands on the wood in front of him, head hung in something between defeat and disappointment.

“Romanoff.” It’s the closest he’ll come to a greeting – that curt, grudging little acknowledgment of the woman’s presence that he gives – and he has half a mind to waste _even more_ time by pouring himself _yet another_ glass, but he knows he’s had enough. It’s time to pay the piper. “You should’ve called ahead, let me know you’d be stopping by,” he says in a falsely pleasant tone. “I’d’ve picked up a bottle of _Stoli_.”

A signature, _warm_ hum, before the woman offers a wry, slightly raspy reply: “Some of us try not to drink on the job.”

His jaw clenches, seems like it’s been _permanently_ clenched for the last hour, so he works it open, lifts his head and lifts a hand as he shifts his chin from side to side. He continues from there, needing a few seconds to make rein in his anger once again, so he rolls his head from the left to the right, stretches his neck out, as well.

They both know the Russian is full of shit, both know that she wouldn’t turn down a drink if he had one to offer. Her comment instead is meant as a dig at him, and it means she’s done enough snooping or surveillance to have formed an opinion on his alcohol consumption. …He’s _fairly_ sure it’s the former, because he wants to think either he or Janssen would’ve recognized if she’d been tailing them in public, but at this rate, he doesn’t know how much his guard has weakened. In any case, neither option has positive implications.

Resigned to the situation, he pulls his hands off the dresser, finally turns to look at the former STRIKE agent. “So this is business, then, not pleasure?”

And the Russian spy has a good poker face – it’s true – but even she can’t fully hide her surprise, can’t keep a completely neutral expression when she sees his face, sees the extent of the scarring present.

 _Snooping_ , it would seem, not surveillance.

He should probably feel vindicated or be cruelly satisfied to have caught _her_ as unprepared as she’d caught _him_ … But he doesn’t. _Can’t_ , maybe. He just glances over her, takes in the fashionable but functional outfit she’s wearing, clearly chosen to blend in better than a tactical suit but remain nearly as practical and unobtrusive in hand-to-hand combat.

She came prepared for a fight.

He scrunches his nose and mouth in a small little sarcastic smile, nods to himself.

 _Of fucking course she did_.

“I steal something of yours, then? That what happened? Or is this more of a _Don’t-Poach-My-Customers_ kind of confrontation?” he mocks in a tone that oozes condescension, despite knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither could be true. The world _thinks_ Crossbones has been stealing weapons and other nasty things from governments and selling them to terrorists, after all, but it’s actually the opposite. “I’d ask if this was a _Moral Issue_ thing, but I know my audience, and I see _Captain Righteousness_ isn’t here with you today.”

And – _fuck it_! – Brock doesn’t _care_ anymore! He’s _done_ with this undercover bullshit, _done_ with watching his every word, with tiptoeing around multiple identities, done with _protecting the mission_.

Feeling more than a little bit vindictive, he cuts a sideways glance at the redhead, twists his lips into a contemptuous smile as he stage whispers, “Or – wait! fuck! – … _is_ he here? Are you making out with him _right now_? You gotta clue me in, here, Romanoff, ‘cuz you _know_ I can’t see people when you’re making out with them!”

And Agent Romanoff isn’t known as one of SHIELD’s best spies for nothing. She’s quick on the uptake, clearly recognizes exactly what he’s referring to, if the way she purses her lips and blinks slower than usual is anything to go off of (and it is). She eyes him again, gaze appraising this time around. “So Fury wasn’t lying.”

Whatever twisted amusement he’d been momentarily feeling before drains from his body like a collapsing dam, leaving nothing but cold stone in its wake. “Fury’s _always_ lying,” comes his dark correction.

The redhead rolls a shoulder, seems unconcerned but in agreement. Stepping closer, she inclines her head and locks gazes with him. “Did he lie about that black eye he’s sporting?”

And _there’s_ that almost violent amusement he’d lost! Teeth flashing in a feral grin, he can’t help but inquire: “How’s it look? I was hoping it’d match the eye patch.”

Another moment passes, her eyes flicking back and forth as she seems to search his expression for something. Eventually, she answers: “Well-earned.”

Brock’s pretty quick on the uptake, too: Romanoff isn’t here as a _foe_ ; she came _prepared_ to fight but not _looking_ to fight, and she knew coming in that he’d been working undercover. He doesn’t know how much of the story Fury actually filled her in on, but evidently he told her enough to have her come alone, and without handcuffs. A team sent to arrest him would’ve busted down the door and swarmed the place already.

…Of course, just because she didn’t come as a _foe_ , that doesn’t mean that she’s here as a _friend_.

He figures they’ve done enough foreplay, figures they’re ready to get on with the main event. Just as he opens his mouth to cut to the chase, though, he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Hey, Boss?”

And – _fuck_! – it’s Janssen. _Was-a-SHIELD-STRIKE-agent-turned-HYDRA, has-an-active-warrant-and-was-recently-broken-out-of-prison_ Janssen.

He sees the recognition flash in the Russian’s eyes, knows without any shadow of a doubt that she’s already identified the source of the voice. Without turning her head, her eyes flick pointedly in the direction of the door before flicking back to pin him with a hard stare.

 _Fuck_.

She moves before he does, and he doesn’t have time to _think_ , doesn’t have time to analyze the possible motives she could have for moving – he just _reacts_.

There’s a blade secured just under the rim of the dresser behind him.

It’s across the room and lodged in the drywall only inches away from Romanoff’s face just a fraction of a second later.

It’s a warning shot, and she seems to recognize it, stops where she is instead of immediately launching a counterattack, but her entire demeanor has changed. There’s a more suspicious edge to those watchful eyes of hers, now, a readiness to her posture, even as she arches a brow and slowly sweeps out an arm in deference.

 _Fuck_!

He’s lost the element of surprise and has just put his closest weapon within proximity of a trained assassin, whom he will have to walk _right past_ in order to get to the door… but he _thinks_ it’s a gamble that’ll pay off… Or, at least, he thinks it’s a gamble that won’t blow up in his face entirely.

Trust doesn’t come easy these days, _especially_ with one of Fury’s minions, with someone who’d until recently been convinced he’d more than once tried to kill. Still, he forces himself to trust she won’t stab him in the back – literally! – …forces himself to trust _his own_ judgment of others, and makes his way to the door, shoots her a warning look before turning his back to her and reaching for the handle.

He adopts an air of nonchalance as he leans against the doorframe, pretends he’s got a hand on the door keeping it only partially open because it lets him lean his weight on it, not because it blocks the view to the room. He inclines his head in greeting, gives the younger man a quick once-over. “Everything good?” The Kid doesn’t _look_ nervous or concerned.

“Yeah, yeah!” the blond dismisses easily, before producing a familiar set of gloves. “You just forgot these, is all. Figured you might want them back.”

“Oh fuck, I did.” It feels appropriate to chuckle, to ignore the oppressive tension coming from the room behind him. He reaches out, accepting the offering and holding them up in gratitude. “Thanks, Man.”

And Janssen’s a full grown adult in his twenties, but there’s a boyish innocence to the way his face still lights up at the hint of praise. “No problem!” comes his chipper reply. “Owner gave us some times for the next couple of days, too, if we’re still around and want to drop in.”

With a sly twist of his lips, Brock glances up at him, gives a slow, barely-there nod. “Uh-huh.”

The younger man laughs, ducks his head and lifts his shoulder in false selflessness. “Just an option. In case you wanted to go for best two out of three.”

 _Oh-ho_! Sly expression still in place, the scarred man ignores the taunt, chooses instead to give his former mentee an overly obvious and clearly dismissive once-over. “Alright, Kid. You want your ass handed to you tomorrow, that can be arranged.” He lifts his hand again. “Thanks for the gloves.”

As the other man takes his leave, Brock steps back and closes the door, takes a breath and turns back to his unexpected drop-in. He catalogues her expression immediately: There’s curiosity in the spy’s gaze, a level of interest Brock knows means he’s already tipped his hand far more than he meant to.

_Fuck._

He didn’t move for a weapon when he realized she was in the room, hadn’t even rushed to spin around so his back wasn’t to her. She could’ve attacked him at any moment, and he hadn’t batted an eye. But _The Kid_ shows up, and he reacts on instinct? …Yeah, she got a look at those cards of his, alright. Either that, or he’s gone and made a huge show of the fact he’s playing _something_ particularly close to the vest.

Oh, well. Might as well lean into it, now.

He steps closer to her, moves into her personal space so that he has to look down at her. She doesn’t back away, of course, doesn’t even flinch as he reaches around her to toss the gloves over onto the hotel bed. “Don’t fuck with my team, Romanoff,” he draws out in a tone that promises violence. “I have _very_ little left I care about, and _absolutely_ _nothing_ keeping me from going nuclear on anyone who tries to get in my way.”

She only tilts her head back, searches his expression once again. “Not even a conscious?”

And it’s a test of sorts, something adjacent to calling his bluff, though not _quite_ so overt. He laughs, is quick to point out: “You know what I’m doing out here. You know what persona I’ve adopted. …You ever know someone who could sell _crazy_ without being at least a little unhinged, himself?” There’s truth to that statement, and he knows she hears it. “Don’t. fuck. with. my. team.”

He brushes past her, tugs the knife out of wall, and flips in in the air casually before catching it and bringing it back to its original hiding spot. The secrecy is lost, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not wise to stow weapons and de-escalate situations when you’ve got the chance. A glance over his shoulder reveals the redhead is still watching him carefully, perhaps still undecided on how she wants to handle her newly acquired information.

“I _don’t_ know what you’re doing out here, actually,” she admits after a moment, head tilting to the side. “My understanding was that _Crossbones_ was turning in his letter of resignation.”

Figuring there's no real reason _not_ to at this point, Brock pours himself another glass of whiskey and takes a sip. “I already did.”

At that, he sets himself down in the nearby chair, winces and shifts for a moment until he’s comfortable. Though he’s lost a great deal of sensation all over his body, and though it takes quite a bit for him to really feel _pain,_ now… it’s sometimes harder to settle, these days – _especially_ when a part of his brain knows he _should_ be feeling pain but isn’t. Janssen worked him over well, and he’d probably be reaching for an icepack if it weren’t for the nerve damage; he knows it, feels some phantom discomfort that shifting positions doesn’t actually help.

He takes another sip of the whiskey before he speaks again, setting his arm down on the armrest and looking back up at the redheaded woman. “But I’ve got one more asset I still need to acquire. Then I’m buying myself a private island and living out the rest of my miserable days there.”

It’s an exaggeration.

Probably.

It’s a… _consideration_ , really. A possibility. He’s made a metric shit-ton of money these past few months, because after _years_ of doing everything he was asked to do and getting paid next to nothing for it, he’d negotiated a _damn_ good deal for himself this time around.

In hindsight, he should’ve screwed Fury over a little bit _more_ with his demands.

The Russian leans back against the wall on the other side of the room from him, keeps watching him with that annoyingly calculating gaze of hers. “Fury didn’t mention that.”

“There’s _a lot_ Fury doesn’t mention,” Brock grinds out once again, still exceptionally bitter and almost certainly never going to be anything _but_ bitter about the whole situation. Using his free hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, he chooses to de-escalate again in hopes they can avoid prolonging this thing. As an olive branch, he offers Romanoff the confirmation he knows she’s looking for: “I don’t work for Fury anymore.”

And he’s _so_ fucking done with this tiptoeing. It’s giving him a headache.

Grumpily, he pulls his hand from his brow and blows out an exasperated breath and skips ahead to the heart of the matter: “Why are you here, Romanoff?”

She only blinks back at him. “You _know_ why I’m here, Rumlow.”

And _yeah_ , he’s pretty sure he does. Another deep breath, and he forces her to spell it out: “Say it.”

“Darcy Lewis.”

Resigned, he nods, drops his gaze to stare through the carpet. He doesn’t say a damned word.

She’s _okay_ , or Romanoff would’ve mentioned it already, wouldn’t have tap-danced around the topic for as long as she did. So this is the _other_ kind of talk, then.

He’s been expecting it.

“She’s a friend.”

He purses his lips, nods again.

“—A close, personal friend.”

Another nod.

“—A genuinely _good_ person who deserves nothing but the best.”

Again.

 _I will kill anyone who jeopardizes her safety or happiness_. He hears the message loud and clear.

He waits, thinks she might have something more to add, but the silence only hangs in the air between them. He takes a sip of the whiskey, exhales audibly when he’s done. “I’m not the one you need to worry about,” he advises. “But there’s a billionaire out there who could probably use a good shovel talk.”

“Ohhhh,” the woman draws out, voice somewhere between sultry and vindictive, “Stark won’t be making that mistake again, don’t you worry.”

“Good.” He nods again, this time more forcefully. “I won’t come running if he does. I _can’t_.”

“I know.” There’s something like professional satisfaction in Romanoff’s voice as she says it. “She told me you said that.”

 _Good_. That means she took his warning seriously.

“She told me a lot about that clandestine meeting of yours.”

He lifts his brow, tilts his head and tries to approximate the _yeah-well-what-can-you-do?_ expression that he used to have nailed down. The scarred man takes another sip from his glass, looks up over the rim at his former colleague, but doesn’t say a word. What is there to say, anyway? Does she expect him to be surprised by this knowledge? It ain’t exactly a _plot twist_.

“She’s the one who first suspected you might not have really been HYDRA, you know.”

Now, _that there_ is a plot twist! He drops his arm back to the armrest, squints over at the spy. “Oh yeah?” Part of him wanted to be proud of that, proud of how smart his soulmate was. Another part of him whispered that he should probably be ashamed a civilian – even a superhero-adjacent one – had so easily seen through his cover. A third part of him wanted to rub that in Romanoff’s face, though, remind her _yet again_ of how _completely fucking blind_ she and Rogers apparently were… But the most important part of him, the part way, _deep_ down in that very central part of his being… That part knew exactly why she’d been the one to make the leap. “Wishful thinking,” he identified. “Just happened to be true.”

The Russian hums in response, confirms: “She always _has_ been optimistic about soulmates.”

Translation: _Darcy Lewis had been naïve, too naïve to realize exactly how cruel a mistress fate could actually be._

He doesn’t bother to dispute the implication. It’s a fair enough assessment, after all, so he agrees: “She deserves better.”

And the redhead is direct, for once: “Yes, she does.” There’s another pause as she tucks her fingers into her belt loops and glances around the room giving him a break from the staring. “She told me she asked you to not to leave.”

He hangs his head, remembers that one word request clearly, remembers how hard it was to hear that and still know he had to leave. He never should’ve gone in the first place. He should’ve sent a message to Stark or – hell! – Romanoff or _someone_ , should’ve left her out of it, should’ve never put her in that position. He’d risked her safety by going just as much as he’d tried to protect it, but he’d risked her happiness, too.

Romanoff’s right, of course. He should’ve left her alone.

“I won’t make her ask again,” comes his quiet but earnest vow.

And it’s eerily silent for a few seconds, as he sits there, head bowed at one of many regrets. He doesn’t know if the Russian believes him, if she thinks he’s going to be an asshole and cause _more_ problems for his soulmate – his young, stunning, genuinely _good_ soulmate.

Romanoff said it herself: Darcy Lewis deserved nothing but the best.

Brock Rumlow knows he’s far from that.

He looks up, catches the Widow’s gaze locked in on him once again. “You better not.”

With a nod of assent, he silently affirms the promise. _Message received_ , loud and clear… though it’s a message that really didn’t need to be delivered at all. Romanoff was wasting her time, worried about warning Brock off. “We done here?”

The redhead pushes off the wall, looks him over one last time. “I’ll see you around, Rumlow.”

And – _dear fucking God_! – he hopes not! Flashing a sarcastic smile her way, he lifts his glass in a mock toast. “Call ahead next time, would you? It’s only polite.”

The Russian offers an enigmatic smile in return, and without making any promises, starts toward the door. And he’s counting down the seconds until she’s gone, until he’s _finally_ alone again, but he’s forced to hold off on that victory celebration when she pauses halfway to the exit. He watches her glance in the direction of the bathroom, can practically _see_ the wheels turning in her mind as she does a little half-turn and looks back at him.

And _ohhh,_ he does _not_ like that expression on her face, does not like how suspiciously close to _pity_ it is… But Brock doesn’t say anything, simply meets her gaze, keeps his own expression carefully neutral even though he’s already got a sneaking suspicion what exactly she’s about to say.

“You know… she _also_ told me you refused to look at her.”

And – _fuck!_ – okay, so maybe he was a _little_ bit off in his estimation, because he was expecting a slightly more direct, at least _above-the-belt_ blow, but it’s much more painful hit than expected. Romanoff chose her words carefully, said _refused to look at her_ instead of _refused to show your face_ , because it’s the former that twists the situation, that makes it sound like it’s _her_ he’s somehow punishing, instead of _himself_. It’s the former that makes him question himself, makes him wonder if maybe there’s a hint of truth to that, if maybe he’d accidentally sent the wrong message.

It’s a good move, but Brock can’t torture himself more than he already is. At the end of the day it just _really_ doesn’t fucking matter, because he’s already got a lifetime of regrets, so what’s one more?

He shrugs a shoulder in dismissal, refuses to rise to the bait. “Had to restrain her while we spoke – make sure she didn’t grab a weapon or call for backup. That’s all.”

The redhead parts her lips, feigns an expression of sudden enlighten, even though they both know neither one of them believes a damn word he’s saying. “Right, of course.” Her voice is silky again – _all-knowing_ in that deceptively casual way of hers – as she tilts her head back in the direction of the bathroom. “…Oh, by the way, you might want to be careful. You’ve got broken glass all over the place in there.“

Brock’s mind immediately supplies the memory – reminds him in vivid detail of the way he’d angrily and quite drunkenly shattered the small little mirror that had been mocking him several hours earlier.

He sets the glass he’s been holding aside, doesn’t touch the remaining whiskey. In hindsight, he really probably _has_ had more than enough, hasn’t he?

Still, he doesn’t admit as much to the woman, doesn’t rise to _that_ rather unsubtle bait, either. Instead, he just pins her with a hard stare and offers, dryly: “There was a fly. I went a little overboard on the swat.”

The clearly made up excuse earns him a twitch of a smile, but the Russian chooses to leave it at that – has to know she’s more than made her point. She doesn’t say anything more, just turns and finally takes her well-overdue leave.

The _second_ the door clicks shut behind her, he’s slumping down in the chair, letting his eyes blink closed after such an incredibly migraine-inducing evening.

 _One_ more op. _Then_ he can retire to some hidden island where he’ll never need to be seen again and where there won’t be a _single goddamn soul_ around to ask him how he’s doing.

_One more._


End file.
